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J. T. TROWBRIDGE’S BOOKS 

NOVELS 


Uniform Style . 

Farnell’s Folly 

Coupon Bonds and Other Stories 
Neighbor Jackwood Revised Ed. 
Cudjo s Cave 


. Price $1.50 each 

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The Drummer Boy 
Martin Merrivale, His X Mark 
Neighbors’ Wives 


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All Handsomely Illustrated 


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Sets in Neat Boxes 


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The Silver Medal 
His Own Master 
Bound in Honor 


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Six Volumes Price $1.25 each 

The Pocket-Rifle 
The Jolly Rover 
Young Joe and Other Boys 

THE TIDE-MILL STORIES 

Six Volumes Price $1.25 each 


Phil and His Friends 

The Tinkham Brothers’ Tide-Mill 

The Satin-Wood Box 


The Little Master 
His One Fault 
Peter Budstone 


A Start in Life 
Biding His Time 


START IN LIFE STORIES 

Five Volumes Price $1.00 each 

The Kelp-Gatherers 
The Scarlet Tanager 
The Lottery Ticket 

TOBY TRAFFORD SERIES 

Three Volumes Price $1.25 each 


The Fortunes of Toby Trafford 


Father Brighthopes 


Woodie Thorpe’s Pilgrimage and Other Stories 


LEE AND SHEPARD PUBLISHERS BOSTON 


COUPON BONDS 


ana iDttjcr stories 



BOSTON 

LEE AND SHEPARD PUBLISHERS 


;TM£ LIBfcAftY OP $ 

CONGRESS 

Two Oodics Received 1 

AUG i? 1955 i 

Ortyntft Enttv 

/9oO} 

, mjm cl AXt Mai • 
(/ / <T^6~iT 
cQipy -&.• 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872 
By JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 

Copyright, 1900, by J. T. Trowbridge. 


All Rights Reserved. 


Coupon Bonds. 



Norinooti ijlresa : 

Berwick & Smith, Norwood, Mass., U.8.A. 


CONTENTS 


Coupon Bonds. p A0H 

I. What Mr. Ducklow brought Home in his Boot-Leg . 1 

II. Miss Beswick 11 

III. A Comfortable Investment 20 

IY. The Returned Soldier 28 

Y. Mr. Ducklow’s Adventures 36 

YI. Mrs. Ducklow’s Adventures 43 

YII. The Journey 47 

YIII. What Mr. Ducklow carried in the Envelope . . 51 

IX. Food for Reflection 53 

X. Reuben’s Misfortune 57 

XI. Taddy’s Financial Operations 60 

Madam Waldoborough’s Carriage .... 65 


Fessenden’s. 

I. The Last Night of Autumn 97 

II. Fessenden’s gets a Ride 107 

III. Makes Acquaintance with the Williams Family . . 112 

IY. Saturday Night and Sunday 121 

Y. A Tremendous Joke 128 

YI. The Removal 135 

YII. Gingerford 141 

Will. Gingerford’s Neat Revenge 146 

IX. Two Funerals 152 

X. Revenge of the Frisbie Faction . . . . 155 

XI. Consequences 161 

XII. A Stranger visits the Grave 164 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


Archibald Blossom, Bachelor. 


I. 

Mr. Blossom hears Bad News 



• 

169 

II. 

A Visit to the Widow and Fatherless 

. 


• 

171 

III. 

Mr. Archibald and Mrs. Benjamin 



• 

177 

IV. 

Cyrus ....... 




179 

V. 

A. B. becomes a Victim .... 



. 

183 

VI. 

The Wedding Day, and what followed 

• 


• 

191 

In the Ice. 





I. 

What might have been a Golden Wedding . 



. 

196 

II. 

The Idol of his Grandparents 

. 


. 

202 

III. 

The Little Housewife and her Friends 



. 

208 

IV. 

Phil asserts his Independence 

• 


. 

219 

V. 

The Pond-Rakes come in Play . 



. 

223 

VI. 

Phil resigns his Situation 

. 


. 

228 

VII. 

A Farewell and an Apparition . 



. 

231 

VIII. 

Uncle Jim’s Evening Call 

. 


. 

238 

IX. 

How Clinton missed a rare Chance 



, 

243 

X. 

A Golden Wedding, after all 

• 


• 

247 

Nancy Blynn’s Lovers 



• 

253 

Mr. Blazay’s Experience. 





I. 

The Lady in Black 




274 

II. 

Mr. Thornton ..... 

. 


# 

276 

III. 

Susie and the Bees 



# 

278 

IV. 

How I was entertained .... 

. 


# 

282 

V. 

P. Green 




285 

VI. 

Mrs. Thornton’s Tea .... 

. 



289 

VII. 

P. Green’s Diplomacy .... 




292 

VIII. 

One of Peleg’s Jokes .... 

. 



295 

IX. 

Cold Water 




299 

X. 

My Trunk is packed .... 

t 



305 

XI. 

P. Green shows his Colors .... 




306 

XII. 

Conclusion 

• 


• 

310 

Preaching for Selwyn. 





I. 

Mr. Jervey’s Part of the Story . 



# 

312 

II. 

Parson Dodd and the Bay Mare 

. 


. 

317 


CONTENTS. V 

III. Parson Dodd’s Sunday-Morning Call .... 328 

IV. Mr. Hillbright sets off on his Mission . . . 333 

V. Jakes in Pursuit 338 

VI. The Widow Garcey ...... 341 

VII. Father Lapham’s Exploit .... . 347 

VIII. Denouement 354 

The Romance of a Glove 360 

The Man who stole a Meeting-House , . • 386 








COUPON BONDS. 


I. 

WHAT MR. DUCKLOW BROUGHT HOME IN HIS BOOT-LEG. 

O N a certain mild March evening, A. D. 1864, the 
Ducklow kitchen had a general air of waiting for 
somebody. Mrs. Ducklow sat knitting by the light of a 
kerosene lamp, but paused ever and anon, neglecting her 
stocking, and knitting her brows instead, with an aspect 
of anxious listening. The old gray cat, coiled up on a 
cushion at her side, purring in her sleep, purred and slept 
as if she knew perfectly well who was coming soon to 
occupy that chair, and meant to make the most of it. 
The old-fashioned clock, perched upon the high mantel- 
piece of the low-studded room, ticked away lonesomely, 
as clocks tick only when somebody is waited for who does 
not come. Even the teakettle on the stove seemed to be 
in the secret, for it simmered and sang after the manner 
of a wise old teakettle fully conscious of the importance 
of its mission. The side-table, which was simply a leaf on 
hinges fixed in the wall, and looked like an apron when 
it was down, giving to that side of the kitchen a curious 
resemblance to Mrs. Ducklow, and rested on one arm when 
it was up, in which position it reminded you more of Mr. 
Ducklow leaning his chin on his hand, — the side-table 
was set with a single plate, knife and fork, and cup and 
saucer, indicating that the person waited for was expected 
1 


2 


COUPON BONDS. 


to partake of refreshments. Behind the stairway door was 
a small boy kicking off a very small pair of trousers with a 
degree of reluctance which showed that he also wished to 
sit up and wait for somebody. 

“ Say, ma, need I go to bed now ! ” he exclaimed rather 
than inquired, starting to pull on the trousers again after 
he had got one leg free. “ He ’ll want me to hold the 
lantern for him to take care of the hoss.” 

“No, no, Taddy,” for that was the boy’s name (short 
for Thaddeus), “you ’ll only be in the way, if you set up. 
Besides, I want to mend your pants.” 

“ You ’re always wantin’ to mend my pants ! ” complained 
the youngster, who seemed to think that it was by no 
means to do him a favor, but rather to afford herself a 
gloating pleasure, that Mrs. Ducklow, who had a mania for 
patching, required the garment to be delivered up to her. 
“ I wish there was n’t such a thing as pants in the world ! ” 
— utterly regardless of the plight the world would be in 
without them. 

“ Don’t talk that way, after all the trouble and expense 
we ’ve been to to clothe ye ! ” said the good woman, re- 
provingly. “ Where would you be now, if ’t was n’t for me 
and yer Pa Ducklow ? ” 

“ I should n’t be goin’ to bed when I don’t want to ! ” 
he muttered, just loud enough to be heard. 

“ You ungrateful child ! ” said Mrs. Ducklow, not with- 
out reason, for Taddy knew very well — at least he was 
reminded of the fact often enough — that he owed to them 
his home and all its comforts. “Wouldn’t be going to 
bed when you don’t want to ! You would n’t be going to 
bed when you do want to, more likely ; for ten to one you 
would n’t have a bed to go to. Think of the sitewation 
you was in when we adopted ye, and then talk that way ! ” 

As this was an unanswerable argument, Taddy contented 


COUPON BONDS. 


3 


himself with thrusting a hand into his trousers and reck- 
lessly increasing the area of the forthcoming patch. “ If 
she likes to mend so well, let her ! ” thought he. 

“ Taddy, are you tearing them pants 1 ” cried Mrs. Duck- 
low sharply, hearing a sound alarmingly suggestive of 
cracking threads. 

“ I was pullin’ ’em off,” said Taddy. “ I never see such 
mean cloth ! can’t touch it but it has to tear. Say, ma, do 
ye think he ’ll bring me home a drum 'S ” 

“ You ’ll know in the morning.” 

“ I want to know to-night. He said mabby he would. 
Say, can't I set up 1 ” 

“ I ’ll let ye know whether you can set up, after you ’ve 
been told so many times ! ” 

So saying, Mrs. Ducklow rose from her chair, laid* down 
her knitting-work, and started for the stairway door with 
great energy and a rattan. But Taddy, who perceived 
retribution approaching, did not see fit to wait for it. He 
darted up the stairs and crept into his bunk with the 
lightness and agility of a squirrel. 

“I’m abed ! Say, ma, I ’m abed ! ” he cried, eager to 
save the excellent lady the trouble of ascending the stairs. 
“ I ’m ’most asleep a’ready ! ” 

“ It ’s a good thing for you you be ! ” said Mrs. Ducklow, 
gathering up the garment he had left behind the door. 
“ Why, Taddy, how you did tear it ! I ’ve a good notion 
to give ye a smart trouncing now ! ” 

Taddy began to snore, and Mrs. Ducklow concluded that 
she would not wake him. 

“ It is mean cloth, as he says ! ” she exclaimed, examining 
it by the kerosene lamp. “ For my part, I consider it a 
great misfortin that shoddy was ever invented. Ye can’t 
buy any sort of a ready-made garment for boys now-days 
but it comes to pieces at the least wear or strain, like so 
much brown paper.” 


4 


COUPON BONDS. 


She was shaping the necessary patch, when the sound 
of wheels coming into the yard told her that the person so 
long waited for had arrived. 

“ That you 1 ” said she, opening the kitchen door and 
looking out into the darkness. 

“ Yes,” replied a man’s voice. 

“Ye want the lantern h ” 

“No: jest set the lamp in the winder, and I guess I can 
git along. Whoa ! ” And the man jumped to the ground. 

“ Had good luck?” the woman inquired in a low voice. 

“ I ’ll tell ye when I come in,” was the evasive answer. 

“ Has he bought me a drum 1 ” bawled Taddy from the 
chamber stairs. 

“ Do you want me to come up there and ’tend to ye 1 ” 
demanded Mrs. Ducklow. 

The boy was not particularly ambitious of enjoying that 
honor. 

“You be still and go to sleep, then, or you’ll git 
drummed ! ” 

And she latched the stairway door, greatly to the dismay 
of Master Taddy, who felt that some vast and momentous 
secret was kept from him. Overhearing whispered con- 
ferences between his adopted parents in the morning, 
noticing also the cautious glances they cast at him, and the 
persistency with which they repeatedly sent him away out 
of sight on slight and absurd pretences, he had gathered a 
fact and drawn an inference, namely, that a great purchase 
was to be made by Mr. Ducklow that day in town, and 
that, on his return, he (Taddy) was to be surprised by the 
presentation of what he had long coveted and teased for, 
— a new drum. 

To lie quietly in bed under such circumstances was an 
act that required more self-control than Master Taddy 
possessed. Accordingly he stole down stairs and listened, 


COUPON BONDS. 


5 


feeling sure that if the drum should come in, Mrs. Duck- 
low, and perhaps Mr. Ducklow himself, would be unable to 
resist the temptation of thumping it softly to try its 
sound. 

Mrs. Ducklow was busy taking her husband’s supper 
out of the oven, where it had been kept warm for him, 
pouring hot water into the teapot, and giving the last 
touches to the table. Then came the familiar grating 
noise of a boot on the scraper. Mrs. Ducklow stepped 
quickly to open the door for Mr. Ducklow. Taddy, well 
aware that he was committing an indiscretion, but inspired 
by the wild hope of seeing a new drum come into the 
kitchen, ventured to unlatch the stairway door, open it a 
crack, and peep. 

Mr. Ducklow entered, bringing a number of parcels con- 
taining purchases from the stores, but no drum visible to 
Taddy. 

“Did you buyl” whispered Mrs. Ducklow, relieving 
him of his load. 

Mr. Ducklow pointed mysteriously at the stairway door, 
lifting his eyebrows interrogatively. 

“ Taddy 1 ” said Mrs. Ducklow. “0, he ’s abed, — 
though I never in my life had such a time to git him off 
out of the way ; for he ’d somehow got possessed with the 
idee that you was to buy something, and he wanted to set 
up and see what it was.” 

“Strange how childem will ketch things sometimes, 
best ye can do to prevent ! ” said Mr. Ducklow. 

“ But did ye buy 1 ” 

“You better jest take them matches and put ’em out o* 
the way, fust thing, ’fore ye forgit it. Matches are dan- 
gerous to have layin’ around, and I never feel safe till 
they ’re safe.” 

And Mr. Ducklow hung up his hat, and laid his over- 


6 


COUPON BONDS. 


coat across a chair in the next room, with a carefulness 
and deliberation exhausting to the patience of good Mrs. 
Ducklow, and no less trying to that of Master Taddy, who 
was waiting to hear the important question answered. 

“ Come ! ” said she, after hastily disposing of the matches, 
“ what ’s the use of keeping me in suspense 1 Bid ye 
buy 1 ” 

“ Where did ye put ’em 1 ” asked Mr. Ducklow, taking 
down the bootjack. 

“ In the little tin pail, where we always keep ’em, of 
course ! Where should I put ’em 1 ” 

“ You need n’t be cross. I asked, ’cause I did n’t hear 
ye put the cover on. I don’t believe ye did put the cover 
on, either ; and I sha’ n’t be easy till ye do.” 

Mrs. Ducklow returned to the pantry ; and her husband, 
pausing a moment, leaning over a chair, heard the cover 
go on the tin pail with a click and a clatter which betrayed, 
that, if ever there was an angry and impatient cover, that 
was. 

“ Anybody been here to-day 1 ” Mr. Ducklow inquired, 
pressing the heel of his right boot in the jack, and steady- 
ing the toe under a round of the chair. 

“ No,” replied Mrs. Ducklow. 

“Ye been anywheres ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Where 1 ” mildly inquired Mr. Ducklow. 

“No matter,” said Mrs. Ducklow, with decided ill-tem- 
per. 

Mr. Ducklow drew a deep sigh, as he turned and looked 
upon her. 

“ Wal, you be about the most uncomftable woman ever 
I see,” he said, with a dark and dissatisfied countenance. 

“If you can’t answer my question, I don’t see why I 
need take the trouble to answer yours,” — and Mrs. Duck- 


COUPON BONDS. 


7 


low returned with compressed lips to her patching. “ Yer 
supper is ready ; ye can eat it when ye please.” 

“ I was answerin’ your question as fast as I could,” said 
her husband, in a tone of excessive mildness, full of sorrow 
and discouragement. 

“ I have n’t seen any signs of your answering it.” 

And the housewife’s fingers stitched away energetically 
at the patch. 

“ Wal, wal ! ye don’t see everything ! ” 

Mr. Ducklow, having already removed one boot, drew 
gently at the other. As it came off, something fell out on 
the floor. He picked it up, and handed it with a trium- 
phant smile to Mrs. Ducklow. 

“ 0, indeed ! is this the — ” 

She was radiant. Her hands dropped their work, and 
opened the package, which consisted of a large unsealed 
envelope and folded papers within. These she unfolded 
and examined with beaming satisfaction. 

“ But what made ye carry ’em in yer boot so 1 ” 

“ To tell the truth,” said Mr. Ducklow, in a suppressed 
voice, “I was afraid o’ bein’ robbed. I never was so 
afraid o’ bein’ robbed in my life ! So, jest as I got clear o’ 
the town, I took it out o’ my pocket ” (meaning, not the 
town, but the envelope containing the papers), “ an’ tucked 
it down my boot-leg. Then, all the way home, I was 
scaret when I was ridin’ alone, an’ still more scaret when I 
heard anybody cornin’ after me. You see, it ’s jest like so 
much money.” 

And he arranged the window-curtain in a manner to 
prevent the sharpest-eyed burglar from peeping in and 
catching a glimpse of the papers. 

He neglected to secure the stairway door, however. 
There, in his hiding-place behind it, stood Taddy, shiver- 
ing in his shirt, but peeping and listening in a fever of cu- 


8 


COUPON BONDS. 


riosity which nothing could chill. His position was such 
that he could not see Mr. Ducklow or the documents, and 
his mind was left free to revel in the most daring fancies 
regarding the wonderful purchase. He had not yet fully 
given up the idea of a new drum, although the image, 
which vaguely shaped itself in his mind, of Mr. Ducklow 
“ tucking it down his boot-leg,” presented difficulties. 

“ This is the bond, you see,” Mr. Ducklow explained ; 
“ and all these little things that fill out the sheet are the 
cowpons. You have only to cut off one o’ these, take it 
to the bank when it is due, and draw the interest on it in 
gold ! ” 

“ But suppose you lose the bonds 1 ” queried Mrs. Duck- 
low, regarding, not without awe, the destructible paper 
representatives of so much property. 

“ That ’s what I ’ve been thinkin’ of ; that ’s what ’s 
made me so narvous. I supposed ’t would be like so much 
railroad stock, good for nothin’ to nobody but the owner, 
and somethin’ that could be replaced if I lost it. But the 
man to the bank said no, — ’t was like so much currency, 
and I must look out for it. That’s what filled all the 
bushes with robbers as I come along the road. And I tell 
ye, ’t was a relief to feel I ’d got safe home at last ; though 
I don’t see now how we ’re to keep the plaguy things so we 
sha’ n’t feel uneasy about ’em.” 

“Nor I either ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Ducklow, turning pale. 
“Suppose the house should take fire ! or burglars should 
break in ! I don’t wonder you was so particular about the 
matches ! Dear me ! I shall be frightened to death ! 
I ’d no idee ’t was to be such dangerous property ! I shall 
be thinking of fires and burglars ! — O-h-h-h ! ” 

The terrified woman uttered a wild scream ; for just then 
a door flew suddenly open, and there burst into the room 
a frightful object, making a headlong plunge at the pre- 


COUPON BONDS. 


9 


cious papers. Mr. Ducklow sprang back against the table 
set for his supper with a force that made everything jar. 
Then he sprang forward again, instinctively reaching to 
grasp and save from plunder the coupon bonds. But by 
this time both he and his wife had become aware of the 
nature of the intrusion. 

“ Thaddeus ! ” ejaculated the lady. “ How came you 
here ? Get up ! Give an account of yourself ! ” 

Taddy, whose abrupt appearance in the room had been 
altogether involuntary, was quite innocent of any preda- 
tory designs. Leaning forward farther and farther, in the 
ardor of discovery, he had, when too late to save himself, 
experienced the phenomenon of losing his balance, and 
pitched from the stairway into the kitchen with a violence 
that threw the door back against the wall with a bang, 
and laid him out, a sprawling figure, in scanty, ghostly ap- 
parel, on the floor. 

“ What ye want ? What ye here for ? ” sternly de- 
manded Mr. Ducklow, snatching him up by one arm, and 
shaking him. 

“Don’t know,” faltered the luckless youngster, speaking 
the truth for once in his life. “ Fell.” 

“ Fell ! How did you come to fall ? What are you out 
o’ bed for?” 

“ Don’t know,” — snivelling and rubbing his eyes. 
“ Did n’t know I was.” 

“ Got up without knowing it ! That ’s a likely story ! 
How could that happen you, sir ? ” said Mrs. Ducklow. 

“ Don’t know, ’thout ’t was I got up in my sleep,” said 
Taddy, who had on rare occasions been known to indulge 
in moderate somnambulism. 

“ In your sleep ! ” said Mr. Ducklow, incredulously. 

“ I guess so. I was dreamin’ you brought me home a 
new drum, — tucked down yer — boot-leg,” faltered Taddy. 

1 * 


10 


COUPON BONDS. 


“ Strange ! ” said Mr. Ducklow, with a glance at his 
wife. “ But how could I bring a drum in my boot-leg 1 ” 

“ Don’t know, ’thout it ’s a new kind, one that ’ll shet 

up.” 

Taddy looked eagerly round, but saw nothing new or in- 
teresting, except some curious-looking papers which Mrs. 
Ducklow was hastily tucking into an envelope. 

“ Say, did ye, pa 1 ” 

“ Did II Of course I did n’t ! What nonsense ! But 
how came ye down here 1 Speak the truth ! ” 

“ I dreamt you was blowin’ it up, and I sprung to ketch 
it, when, fust I knowed, I was on the floor, like a thousan’ 
o’ brick ! ’Mos’ broke my knee-pans ! ” whimpered Taddy. 
“ Say, did n’t ye bring me home nothin’ 1 ’ What ’s them 
things'?” 

“ Nothin’ little boys know anything about. Now run 
back to bed again. I forgot to buy you a drum to-day, 
but I ’ll git ye somethin’ next time I go to town, — if I 
think on ’t ! ” 

“ So ye always say, but ye never* think on ’t ! ” com- 
plained Taddy. 

“ There, there ! Somebody ’s cornin’ ! What a lookin’ 
object you are, to be seen by visitors ! ” 

There was a knock. Taddy disappeared. Mr. Ducklow 
turned anxiously to his wife, who was hastily hiding the 
bonds in her palpitating bosom. 

“ Who can it be this time o’ night 1 ” 

“ Sakes alive ! ” said Mrs. Ducklow, in whose mind bur- 
glars were uppermost, “ I wish, whoever ’t is, they ’d keep 
away ! Go to the door,” she whispered, resuming her work. 

Mr. Ducklow complied ; and, as the visitor entered, 
there she sat plying her needle as industriously and de- 
murely as though neither bonds nor burglars had ever 
been heard of in that remote rural district. 


COUPON BONDS. 


11 


II. 


MISS BESWICK. 

“ Ah, Miss Beswick, walk in ! ” said Mr. Ducklow. 

A tall, spare, somewhat prim-looking female of middle 
age, with a shawl over her head, entered, nodding a curt 
and precise good-evening, first to Mr. Ducklow, then to his 
wife. 

“ What, that you 1 ” said Mrs. Ducklow, with curiosity 
and surprise. “ Where on ’arth did you come from 1 Set 
her a chair, why don’t ye, father 1 ” 

Mr. Ducklow, who was busy slipping his feet into a pair 
of old shoes, hastened to comply with the hospitable sug- 
gestion. 

“ I ’ve only jest got home,” said he, apologetically, as if 
fearful lest the fact of his being caught in his stockings 
should create suspicions : so absurdly careful of appear- 
ances some people become, when they have anything to 
conceal. “Jest had time to kick my boots off, you see. 
Take a seat.” 

“ Thank ye. I s’pose you ’ll think I ’m wild, makin’ 
calls at this hour ! ” 

And Miss Beswick seated herself with an angular move- 
ment, and held herself prim and erect in the chair. 

“ Why, no, I don’t,” said Mrs. Ducklow, civilly ; while 
at the same time she did think it very extraordinary and 
unwarrantable conduct on the part of her neighbor to be 
walking the streets and entering the dwellings of honest 
people, alone, after eight o’clock, on a dark night. 

“You ’re jest in time to set up and take a cup o’ tea 
with my husband ” ; an invitation she knew would not be 
accepted, and which she pressed accordingly. “Ye better, 


12 


COUPON BONDS. 


Miss Beswick, if only to keep him company. Take off yer 
things, won’t ye % ” 

“No, I don’t go a-visitin’, to take off my things and 
drink tea, this time o’ night ! ” 

Miss Beswick condescended, however, to throw back the 
shawl from her head, exposing to view a long, sinewy neck, 
the strong lines of which ran up into her cheeks, and ram- 
ified into wrinkles, giving severity to her features. At the 
same time emerged from the fold of the garment, as it 
were, a knob, a high, bare poll, so lofty and narrow, 
and destitute of the usual ornament, natural or false, that 
you involuntarily looked twice, to assure yourself that 
it was really that lovely and adorable object, a female 
head. 

“ I ’ve jest run over to tell you the news,” said Miss 
Beswick. 

“ Nothing bad, I hope 1 ” said Mrs. Ducklow. “ No 
robbers in town ! for massy sake ! ” And Mrs. Ducklow 
laid her hand on her bosom, to make sure that the bonds 
were still there. 

“ No, good news, — good for Sophrony, at any rate ! ” 

“ Ah ! she has heard from Reuben 1 ” 

“No ! ” The severity of the features was modified by a 
grim smile. “ No ! ” and the little, high knob of a head 
was shaken expressively. 

“ What then 1 ” Ducklow inquired. 

“ Reuben has come home ! ” The words were spoken 
triumphantly, and the keen gray eyes of the elderly 
maiden twinkled. 

“ Come home ! home ! ” echoed both Ducklows at once, 
in great astonishment. 

Miss Beswick assured them of the fact. 

“ My ! how you talk ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Ducklow. “ I 
never dreamed of such a — * When did he come 1 ” 


COUPON BONDS. 


13 


“ About an hour ’n’ a half ago. I happened to be in to 
Sophrony’s. I had jest gone over to set a little while with 
her and keep her company, — as I ’ve often done, she 
seemed so lonely, livin’ there with her two children alone 
in the house, her husband away so. Her friends ha’ n’t 
been none too attentive to her in his absence, she thinks, 
— and so I think.” 

“ I — I hope you don’t mean that as a hint to us, Miss 
Beswick,” said Mrs. Ducklow. 

“ You can take it as such, or not, jest as you please ! I 
leave it to your own consciences. You know best whuther 
you have done your duty to Sophrony and her family, 
whilst her husband has been off to the war ; and I sha’ n’t 
set myself up for a judge. You never had any boys of your 
own, and so you adopted Reuben, jest as you have lately 
adopted Thaddeus ; and I s’pose you think you ’ve done 
well by him, jest as you think you will do by Thaddeus, 
if he ’s a good boy, and stays with you till he ’s twenty- 
one.” 

“ I hope no one thinks or says the contrary, Miss Bes- 
wick ! ” said Mr. Ducklow, gravely, with flushed face. 

“ There may be two opinions on that subject ! ” said 
Miss Beswick, with a slight toss of the head, setting that 
small and irregular spheroid at a still loftier and more 
imposing altitude. “Reuben came to you when he was 
jest old enough to be of use about the house and on the 
farm ; and if I recollect right, you did n’t encourage idle- 
ness in him long. You did n’t give his hands much chance 
to do ‘some mischief still!’ No, indeed! nobody can 
accuse you of that weakness ! ” And the skin of the 
wrinkled features tightened with a terrible grin. 

“ Nobody can say we ever overworked the boy, or ill- 
used him in any way ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Ducklow, ex- 
citedly. 


14 


COUrON BONDS. 


“No ! I don’t say it ! But this I ’ll say, for I ’ye had 
it in my mind ever since Sophrony was left alone, — I 
couldn’t help seein’ and feelin’, and now you’ve set me 
a-talkin’ I may as well speak out. Reuben was always a 
good boy, and a willin’ boy, as you yourselves must allow ; 
and he paid his way from the first.” 

“ I don’t know about that ! ” interposed Mr. Ducklow, 
taking up his knife and fork, and dropping them again, in 
no little agitation. “ He was a good and willin’ boy, as 
you say ; but the expense of clothin’ him and keepin’ him 
to school — ” 

“ He paid his way from the first ! ” repeated Miss Bes- 
wick, sternly. “ You kept him to school winters, when he 
did more work ’fore and after school than any other boy in 
town. He worked all the time summers ; and soon he 
was as good as a hired man to you. He never went to 
school a day after he was fifteen ; and from that time he 
was better ’n any hired man, for he was faithful, and took 
an interest, and looked after and took care of things as no 
hired man ever would or could do, as I ’ve heard you your- 
self say, Mr. Ducklow ! ” 

“ Reuben was a good, faithful boy : I never denied that ! 
I never denied that ! ” 

“ Well, he stayed with you till he was twenty-one, — did 
ye a man’s service for the last five or six years ; then you 
giv’ him what you called a sett in’ out, — a new suit o’ 
clothes, a yoke of oxen, some farmin’-tools, and a hundred 
dollars in money ! You, with yer thousands, Mr. Ducklow, 
giv’ him a hundred dollars in money ! ” 

“ That was only a beginning only a beginning I ’ve 
always said ! ” declared the red-flushed farmer. 

“ I know it ; and I s’pose you ’ll continner to say so till 
the day of yer death ! Then maybe you ’ll remember 
Reuben in yer will. That ’s the way ! Keep puttin’ him 


COUPON BONDS. 


15 


off as long as you can possibly hold on to your property 
yourself, — then, when you see you ’ve got to go and leave 
it, give him what you ought to ’ve gi’n him years before. 
There a’n’t no merit in that kind o’ justice, did ye know 
it, Mr. Ducklow 1 I tell ye, what belongs to Reuben be- 
longs to him now , — not ten or twenty year hence, when 
you ’ve done with ’t, and he most likely won’t need it. A 
few hundred dollars now ’ll be more useful to him than all 
your thousands will be bime-by. After he left you, he 
took the Moseley farm ; everybody respected him, every- 
body trusted him ; he was doin’ well, everybody said ; then 
he married Sophrony, and a good and faithful wife she ’s 
been to him ; and finally he concluded to buy the farm, 
which you yourself said was a good idee, and encouraged 
him in ’t.” 

“ So it was ; Reuben used judgment in that, and he ’d 
have got along well enough if ’t had n’t been for the war,” 
said Mr. Ducklow ; while his wife sat dumb, not daring to 
measure tongues with their vigorous-minded and plain- 
speaking neighbor. 

“Jest so ! ” said Miss Beswick. “If it hadn’t been for 
the war ! He had made his first payments, and would have 
met the rest as they came due, no doubt of it. But the 
war broke out, and he left all to sarve his country. Says he, 
‘I’man able-bodied man, and I ought to go,’ says he. His 
business was as important, and his wife and children was 
as dear to him, as anybody’s ; but he felt it his duty to 
go, and he went. They did n’t give no such big bounties 
to volunteers then as they do now, and it was a sacrifice 
to him every way when he enlisted. But says he, ‘ I ’ll 
jest do my duty,’ says he, ‘and trust to Providence for the 
rest.’ You did n’t discourage his goin’, — and you did n’t 
mcourage him, neither, the way you ’d ought to.” 

“ My ! what on ’arth, Miss Beswick ! — Seems to mo 


16 


COUPON BONDS. 


you ’re takin’ it upon yourself to say things that are un- 
called for, to say the least ! I can’t understand what 
should have sent you here, to tell me what ’s my business, 
and what a’n’t, this fashion. As if I did n’t know my own 
duty and intentions ! ” And Mr. Ducklow poured his tea 
into his plate, and buttered his bread with a teaspoon. 

“ I s’pose she ’s been talking with Sophrony, and she has 
sent her to interfere.” 

“ Mis’ Ducklow, you don’t s’pose no such thing ! You 
know Sophrony wouldn’t send anybody on such an arrant; 
and you know I a’n’t a person to do such arrants, or be 
made a cat’s-paw of by anybody. I a’n’t handsome, not 
partic’larly ; and I a’n’t wuth my thousands, like some folks 
I know ; and I never got married, for the best reason in 
the world, — them that offered themselves I wouldn’t 
have, and them I would have had did n’t offer themselves ; 
and I a’n’t so good a Christian as I might be, I ’m aware. 
I know my lacks as well as anybody ; but bein’ a spy and 
a cat’s-paw a’n’t one of ’em. I don’t do things sly and 
underhand. If I ’ve anything to say to anybody, I go 
right to ’em, and say it to their face, — sometimes perty 
blunt, I allow. But I don’t wait to be sent by other folks. 
I ’ve a mind o’ my own, and my own way o’ doin’ things, 
— that you know as well as anybody. So, when you say 
you s’pose Sophrony or anybody else sent me here to in- 
terfere, I say you s’pose what a’n’t true, and what you 
know a’n’t true, Mis’ Ducklow ! ” 

Mrs. Ducklow was annihilated, and the visitor went on. 

“As for you, Mr. Ducklow, I haven’t said you don’t 
know your own duty and intentions. I ’ve no doubt you 
think you do, at any rate.” 

“Very well! then why can’t you leave me to do what 
I think’s my duty] Everybody ought to have that 
privilege.” 


COUPON BONDS. 


17 


“ You think so 1 ” 

“ Sartin, Miss Beswick ; don’t you 1 ” 

“ Why, then, I ought to have the same.” 

“Of course; nobody in this house’ll prevent your 
doin’ what you’re satisfied ’s your duty.” 

“ Thank ye ! much obleeged ! ” said Miss Beswick, 
with gleaming, gristly features. “That’s all I ask. Now 
I ’m satisfied it ’s my duty to tell ye what I ’ve been 
tellin’ ye, and what I ’m goin’ to tell ye : that ’s my duty. 
And then it '11 be your duty to do what you think ’s right. 
That ’s plain, a’n’t it ? ” 

“ Wal, wal ! ” said Mr. Ducklow, discomfited ; “I can’t 
hinder yer talkin’, I s’pose; though it seems a man ought 
to have a right to peace and quiet in his own house.” 

“ Yes, and in his own conscience too ! ” said Miss Bes- 
wick. “ And if you ’ll hearken to me now, I promise you 
’ll have peace and quiet in your conscience, and in your 
house too, such as you never have had yit. I s’pose you 
know your great fault, don’t ye 1 Graspin’, — that ’s your 
fault, that ’s your besettin’ sin, Mr. Ducklow. You used 
to give it as an excuse for not helpin’ Reuben more, that 
you had your daughter to provide for. Well, your daughter 
has got married ; she married a rich man, — you looked 
out for that, — and she ’s provided for, fur as property can 
provide for any one. Now, without a child in the world 
to feel anxious about, you keep layin’ up and layin’ up, 
and ’ll continner to lay up, I s’pose, till ye die, and leave a 
great fortin’ to your daughter, that already has enough, 
and jest a pittance to Reuben and Thaddeus.” 

“No, no, Miss Beswick! you’re wrong, you ’re wrong, 
Miss Beswick ! I mean to do the handsome thing by both 
on ’em.” 

“ Mean to ! ye mean to ! That ’s the way ye flatter yer 
conscience, and cheat yer own soul. Why don’t ye do 

B 


18 


COUPON BONDS. 


what ye mean to do to once, and make sure on ’t 1 That ’s 
the way to git the good of your property. I tell ye, the 
time ’s coinin’ when the recollection of havin’ done a good 
action will be a greater comfort to ye than all the prop- 
erty in the world. Then you ’ll look back and say, ‘ Why 
did n't I do this and do that with my money, when ’t was 
in my power, ’stead of hoardin’ up and hoardin’ up for 
others to spend after me?’ Now, as I was goin’ to say, 
ye did n’t discourage Reuben’s enlistin’, and ye did n’t 
^courage him the way ye might. You ought to ’ve said 
to him, ‘ Go, Reuben, if ye see it to be yer duty ; and, as 
fur as money goes, ye sha’ n’t suffer for ’t. I ’ve got 
enough for all on us ; and I ’ll pay yer debts, if need be, 
and see ’t yer fam’ly ’s kep’ comf’table while ye’re away.’ 
But that ’s jest what ye did n’t say, and it ’s jest what ye 
did n’t do. All the time Reuben ’s been sarvin’ his coun- 
try, he ’s had his debts and his family expenses to worry 
him ; and you know it ’s been all Sophrony could do, by 
puttin’ forth all her energies, and strainin’ every narve, to 
keep herself and children from goin’ hungry and ragged. 
You ’ve helped ’em a little now and then, in driblets, it ’s 
true ; but, dear me ! ” exclaimed Miss Beswick ; and she 
smote her hands, palms downwards, upon her lap, with a 
look and gesture which signified that words utterly failed 
to express her feelings on the subject. 

Mrs. Ducklow, who, since her annihilation, had scarcely 
ventured to look up, sat biting her lips, drawing quick 
breaths of suppressed anger and impatience, and sewing 
the patch to the trousers and to her own apron under them. 
There was an awful silence, broken only by the clock tick- 
ing, and Mr. Ducklow lifting his knife and fork and let- 
ting them fall again. At last he forced himself to speak. 

“ Wal, you ’ve read us a pretty smart lectur’, Miss Bes- 
wick, I must say. I can’t consaive what should make ye 


COUPON BONDS. 


19 


take such an interest in our affairs ; but it ’s very kind in 
ye, — very kind, to be sure ! ” 

“ Take an interest ! Have n’t I seen Sophrony’s strug- 
gles with them children '? And have n’t I seen Reuben 
come home this very night, a sick man, with a broken 
constitution, and no prospect before him but to give up 
his farm, lose all he has paid, and be thrown upon the 
charities of the world with his wife and children 1 And if 
the charities of friends are so cold, what can he expect 
of the charities of the world 1 Take an interest ! I wish 
you took half as much. Here I ’ve sot half an hour, and 
you have n’t thought to ask how Reuben appeared, or any- 
thing about him.” 

“ Maybe there ’s a good reason for that, Miss Beswick. 
’T was on my lips to ask half a dozen times ; but you 
talked so fast, you would n’t give me a chance.” 

“ Well, I ’m glad you ’ve got some excuse, though a poor 
one,” said Miss Beswick. 

“ How is Reuben 1 ” Mrs. Ducklow meekly inquired. 

“ All broken to pieces, — a mere shadder of what he 
was. He ’s had his old wound troublin’ him ag’in ; then 
he ’s had the fever, that come within one of takin’ him out 
o’ the world. He was in the hospitals, ye know, for two 
months or more ; but finally the doctors see ’t was his 
only chance to be sent home, weak as he was. A sergeant 
that was cornin’ on brought him all the way, and took 
him straight home ; and that ’s the reason he got along 
so sudden and unexpected, even to Sophrony. 0, if you 
could seen their meetin’, as I did ! then you would n’t 
sneer at my takin’ an interest.” And Miss Beswick, 
strong-minded as she was, found it necessary to make 
use of her handkerchief. “ I did n’t stop only to help put 
him to bed, and fix things a little ; then I left ’em alone, 
and run over to tell ye. It ’s a pity you did n’t know he 


20 


COUPON BONDS. 


was in town when you was there to-day, so as to bring him 
home with ye. But I s’pose you had your investments to 
look after. Come, now, Mr. Ducklow, how many thousan’ 
dollars have you invested, since Reuben ’s been off to war, 
and his folks have been sufferin’ to home 1 You may have 
been layin’ up hundreds, or even thousands, that way, this 
very day, for aught I know. But let me tell ye, you won’t 
git no good of such property, - — it ’ll only be a cuss to ye, 
— till you do the right thing by Reuben. Mark my 
word ! ” 

There was another long silence. 

“Ye a’ n’t going, be ye, Miss Beswick 1 ” said Mrs. Duck- 
low, — for the visitor had arisen. “ What ’s yer hurry 1 ” 

“No hurry at all ; but I ’ve done my arrant and said 
my say, and may as well be goin’. Good night. Good 
night, Mr. Ducklow.” 

And Miss Beswick, pulling her shawl over her head, 
stalked out of the house like some tall, gaunt spectre, leav- 
ing the Ducklows to recover as best they could from the 
consternation into which they had been thrown by her 
coming. 


III. 

A COMFORTABLE INVESTMENT. 

“ Did you ever 1 ” said Mrs. Ducklow, gaining courage 
to speak after the visitor was out of hearing. 

“ She ’s got a tongue ! ” said Mr. Ducklow. 

“ Strange she should speak of your investing money to- 
day ! D’ ye s’pose she knows 1 ” 

“ I don’t see how she can know.” And Mr. Ducklow 
paced the room in deep trouble. “ I ’ve been careful not 


COUPON BONDS. 


21 


to give a hint on ’t to anybody, for I knew jest what folks 
would say : ‘ If Ducklow has got so much money to dis- 
pose of, he ’d better give Reuben a lift.’ I know how folks 
talk.” 

“ Coming here to browbeat us ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Duck- 
low. “ I wonder ye did n’t be a little more plain with her, 
father ! I would n’t have sot and been dictated to as 
tamely as you did ! ” 

“ You would n’t ? Then why did ye 1 She dictated to 
you as much as she did to me ; and you source opened 
your head ; you did n’t dars’ to say yer soul was your 
own ! ” 

“Yes, I did, I — ” 

“You ventur’d to speak once, and she shet ye up 
quicker ’n lightnin’. Now tell about you would n’t have 
sot and been dictated to like a tame noodle, as I did ! ” 

“ I did n’t say a tame noodle .” 

“Yes, ye did. I might have answered back sharp 
enough, but I was expectin’ you to speak. Men don’t like 
to dispute with women” 

“ That ’s your git-off,” said Mrs. Ducklow, trembling 
with vexation. “You was jest as much afraid of her as I 
was. I never see ye so cowed in all my life.” 

“ Cowed ! I was n’t cowed, neither. How unreasonable, 
now, for you to cast all the blame on to me!” 

And Mr. Ducklow, his features contracted into a black 
scowl, took his boots from the corner. 

“Ye ha’n’t got to go out, have ye?” said Mrs. Ducklow. 
“ I should n’t think you ’d put on yer boots jest to step to 
the barn and see to the hoss.” 

“ I ’m goin’ over to Reuben’s.” 

“ To Reuben’s ! Not to-night, father ! ” 

« Yes, I think I better. He and Sophrony ’ll know we 
heard of his gittin’ home, and they ’re enough inclined 


22 


COUPON BONDS. 


a’ready to feel we neglect ’em. Have n’t ye got somethin’ 
ye can send 1 ” 

“ I don’t know,” — curtly. “ I ’ve source ever been 
over to Sophrony’s but I ’ve carried her a pie or cake or 
something ; and mighty little thanks I got for it, as it 
turns out.” 

“ Why did n’t ye say that to Miss Beswick, when she 
was runnin’ us so hard about our never doin’ anything for 
’em V' 

“ ’T would n’t have done no good ; I knew jest what 
she ’d say. ‘ What ’s a pie or a cake now and then 1 ’ — 
that ’s jest the reply she ’d have made. Dear me ! What 
have I been doing 1 ” 

Mrs. Ducklow, rising, had but just discovered that she 
had stitched the patch and the trousers to her apron. 

“ So much for Miss Beswick ! ” she exclaimed, untying 
the apron-strings, and flinging the united garments spite- 
fully down upon a chair. “I do wish such folks -would 
mind their own business and stay to home ! ” 

“ You ’ve got the bonds safe 1 ” said Mr. Ducklow, 
putting on his overcoat. 

“ Yes ; but I won’t engage to keep ’em safe. They 
make me as narvous as can be. I ’m afraid to be left 
alone in the house with ’em. Here, you take ’em.” 

“ Don’t be foolish. What harm can possibly happen to 
them or you while I ’m away 'l You don’t s’pose I want to 
lug them around with me wherever I go, do ye 1 ” 

“ I ’m sure it ’s no great lug. I s’pose you ’re afraid to 
go acrost the fields alone with ’em in yer pocket. What 
in the world we ’re going to do with ’em I don’t see. If 
we go out we can’t take ’em with us, for fear of losing ’em, 
or of being robbed ; and we sha’ n’t dare to leave ’em to 
home, fear the house ’ll burn up or git broke into.” 

“We can hide ’em where no burglar can find ’em,” said 
Mr. Ducklow. 


COUPON BONDS. 


23 


“Yes, and where nobody else can find ’em, neither, pro- 
vided the house burns and neighbors come in to save 
things. I don’t know but it ’ll be about as Miss Beswick 
said : we sha’ n't take no comfort with property we ought 
to make over to Reuben.” 

“ Do you think it ought to be made over to Reuben 1 
If you do, it ’s new to me.” 

“No, I don’t ! ” replied Mrs. Ducklow, decidedly. “ I 
guess we better put ’em in the clock-case for to-night, 
had n’t we ! ” 

“ Jest where they ’d be discovered, if the house is robbed! 
No : I ’ve an idee. Slip ’em under the settin’-room car- 
pet. Let me take ’em : I can fix a place right here by the 
side of the door.” 

With great care and secrecy the bonds were deposited 
between the carpet and the floor, and a chair set over 
them. 

“ What noise was that ! ” said the farmer, starting. 

“ Thaddeus,” cried Mrs. Ducklow, “ is that you 1 ” 

It was Thaddeus, indeed, who, awaking from a real 
dream of the drum this time, and, hearing conversation in 
the room below, had once more descended the stairs to lis- 
ten. What were the old people hiding there under the 
carpet ? It must be those curious things in the envelope. 
And what were those things, about which so much mystery 
seemed necessary! Taddy was peeping and considering, 
when he heard his name called. He would have glided 
back to bed again, but Mrs. Ducklow, who sprang to the 
stairway door, was too quick for him. 

“ What do you want now ! ” she demanded. 

“I — I want you to scratch my back,” said Taddy. 

As he had often come to her with this innocent request, 
after undressing for bed, he did not see why the excuse 
would not pass as readily as the previous one of somnam- 


24 


COUPON BONDS. 


bulism. But Mrs. Ducklow was in no mood to be trifled 
with. 

“ I ’ll scratch your back for ye ! ” And seizing her rat- 
tan, she laid it smartly on the troublesome part, to the 
terror and pain of poor Taddy, who concluded that too 
much of a good thing was decidedly worse than nothing. 
“ There, you sir, that ’s a scratching that ’ll last ye for 
one while ! ” 

And giving him two or three parting cuts, not confined 
to the region of the back, but falling upon the lower lati- 
tudes, which they marked like so many geographical par- 
allels, she dismissed him with a sharp injunction not to let 
himself be seen or heard again that night. 

Taddy obeyed, and, crying himself to sleep, dreamed 
that he was himself a drum, and that Mrs. Ducklow beat 
him. 

“ Father ! ” called Mrs. Ducklow to her husband, who 
was at the barn, “ do you know what time it is ? It ’s 
nine o’clock ! I would n’t think of going over there to- 
night ; they ’ll be all locked up, and abed and asleep, like 
as not.” 

“ Wal, I s’pose I must do as you say,” replied Mr. Duck- 
low, glad of an excuse not to go, — Miss Beswick’s visit 
having left him in extremely low spirits. 

Accordingly, after bedding down the horse and fastening 
the barn, he returned to the kitchen ; and soon the pros- 
perous couple retired to rest. 

“ Why, how res’less you be ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Ducklow, 
in the middle of the night. “ What ’s the reason ye can’t 
sleep ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” groaned Mr. Ducklow. “ I can’t help 
thinkin’ o’ Miss Beswick. I never was so worked at any 
little thing.” 

“ Well, well ! forget it, father ; and do go to sleep ! ” 


COUPON BONDS. 


25 


“ I feel I ought to have gone over to Reuben’s ! And I 
should have gone, if ’t had n’t been for you.” 

“ Now how unreasonable to blame me ! ” said Mrs. 
Ducklow. “Ye might have gone ; I only reminded ye 
how late it was.” 4 

Mr. Ducklow groaned, and turned over. He tried to 
forget Miss Beswick, Reuben, and the bonds, and at last he 
fell asleep. 

“Father ! ” whispered Mrs. Ducklow, awaking him. 

“ What ’s the matter 1 ” 

“ I think — I’m pretty sure — hark ! I heard some- 
thing sounded like somebody gitting into the kitchen 
winder ! ” 

“ It ’s your narvousness.” Yet Mr. Ducklow listened 
for further indications of burglary. “Why can’t ye be 
quiet and go to sleep, as you said to me 1 ” 

“I’m sure I heard something ! Anybody might have 
looked through the blinds and seen us putting — you 
know — under the carpet.” 

“ Nonsense ! ’t a’n’t at all likely.” 

But Mr. Ducklow was more alarmed than he was willing 
to confess. He succeeded in quieting his wife’s apprehen- 
sions ; but at the same time the burden of solicitude and 
wakefulness seemed to pass from her mind only to rest 
upon his own. She soon after fell asleep ; but he lay 
awake, hearing burglars in all parts of the house for an 
hour longer. 

“ What now 1 ” suddenly exclaimed Mrs. Ducklow, start- 
ing up in bed. 

“ I thought I might as well git up and satisfy myself,” 
replied her husband, in a low, agitated voice. 

He had risen, and was groping his way to the kitch- 
en. 

“ Is there anything 1 ” she inquired, after listening long 


26 


COUPON BONDS. 


with chilling blood, expecting at each moment to hear him 
knocked down or throttled. 

He made no reply, but presently came gliding softly 
back again. * 

“ I can’t find nothin’. But I never in all my life heard 
the floors creak so ! I could have sworn there was some- 
body walkin’ over ’em ! ” 

“ I guess you ’re a little excited, a’n’t ye 1 ” 

“No, — I got over that ; but I did hear noises ! ” 

Mr. Ducklow, returning to his pillow, dismissed his 
fears, and once more composed his mind for slumber. 
But the burden of which he had temporarily relieved his 
wife now returned with redoubled force to the bosom of 
that virtuous lady. It seemed as if there was only a cer- 
tain amount of available sleep in the house, and that, 
when one had it, the other must go without ; while at the 
same time a swarm of fears perpetually buzzed in and out 
of the mind, whose windows wakefulness left open. 

“ Father ! ” said Mrs. Ducklow, giving him a violent 
shake. 

“ Hey 1 what 1 ” — arousing from his first sound sleep. 

“ Don’t you smell something burning 1 ” 

Ducklow snuffed ; Mrs. Ducklow muffed ; they sat up 
in bed, and snuffed vivaciously in concert. 

“ No, I can’t say I do. Did you 1” 

“ Jest as plain as ever I smelt anything in my life ! But 
I don’t so ” — snuff, snuff — “ not quite so distinct now.” 

“Seems to me I do smell somethin’,” said Mr. Ducklow, 
imagination coming to his aid. “ It can’t be the matches, 
can it 1 ” 

“ I thought of the matches, but I certainly covered ’em 
up tight.” 

They snuffed again, — first one, then the other, — now a 
series of quick, short snuffs, then one long, deep snuff, then 


COUPON BONDS. 


27 


a snuff by both together, as if by uniting their energies, 
like two persons pulling at a rope, they might accomplish 
what neither was equal to singly. 

“ Good heavens ! ” exclaimed Mr. Ducklow. 

“ Why, what, father ? ” 

“ It ’s Thaddeus ! He ’s been walkin’ in his sleep. 
That ’s what we heard. * And now he ’s got the matches 
and set the house afire ! ” 

He bounded out of bed; he went stumbling over the 
chairs in the kitchen, and clattering among the tins in the 
pantry, and rushing blindly and wildly up the kitchen 
stairs, only to find the matches all right, Taddy fast asleep, 
and no indications anywhere, either to eye or nostril, of 
anything burning. 

“ ’T was all your imagination, mother.” 

“ My imagination ! You was jest as frightened as I was. 
I ’m sure I can’t tell what it was I smelt ; I can’t smell it 
now. Did you feel for the — you know what 1 ” 

Mrs. Ducklow seemed to think there were evil ones lis- 
tening, and it was dangerous to mention by name what was 
uppermost in the minds of both. 

“ I wish you would jest put your hand and see if they ’re 
all right ; for I ’ve thought several times I heard somebody 
taking on ’em out.” 

Mr. Ducklow had been troubled by similar fancies ; so, 
getting down on his knees, he felt in the dark for the bonds. 

“ Good gracious ! ” he ejaculated. 

“ What now 1 ” cried Mrs. Ducklow. “ They a’ n’t gone, 
be they 1 You don’t say they ’re gone ! ” 

“ Sure ’s the world ! — No, here they be ! I did n’t feel 
in the right place.” 

“ How you did frighten me ! My heart almost hopped 
out of my mouth ! ” Indeed, the shock was sufficient to 
keep the good woman awake the rest of the night. 


28 


COUPON BONDS. 


IV. 


THE RETURNED SOLDIER. 

Daylight the next morning dissipated their doubts, and 
made both feel that they had been the victims of unneces- 
sary and foolish alarms. 

“I hope ye won’t git so worked up another night,” said 
Mr. Ducklow. “ It ’sno use. We might live in the house 
a hundred years, and never hear of a robber or a fire. Ye 
only excite yerself, and keep me awake.” 

“ I should like to know if you did n’t git excited, and rob 
me of my sleep jest as much as I did you ! ” retorted the 
indignant housewife. 

“You began it; you fust put it into my head. But 
never mind ; it can’t be helped now. Le’ ’s have breakfast 
as soon as ye can ; then I ’ll run over and see Reuben.” 

“ Why not harness up, and let me ride over with ye 1 ” 

“Very well; mabby that’ll be the best way. Come, 
Taddy, ye must wake up. Fly round. You ’ll have lots o’ 
chores to do this mornin’.” 

“ What ’s the matter ’th my breeches 1 ” snarled Taddy. 
“ Some plaguy thing ’s stuck to ’em ! ” 

It was Mrs. Ducklow’ s apron, trailing behind him at 
half-mast, — at sight of which, and of Taddy turning round 
and round to look at it, like a kitten in pursuit of her own 
tail, Ducklow burst into a loud laugh. 

“ Wal, wal, mother ! you ’ve done it ! You ’re dressed 
for meetin’ now, Taddy ! ” 

“ I do declare ! ” said Mrs. Ducklow, mortified. “ I 
can’t, for the life of me, see what there is so very funny 
about it ! ” And she hastened to cut short Taddy’s trail 
and her husband’s laughter with a pair of scissors. 


COUPON BONDS. 


29 


After breakfast the Ducklows set off in the one-horse 
wagon, leaving Taddy to take care of the house during their 
absence. That each felt secretly uneasy about the coupon 
bonds cannot be denied ; but, after the experiences of the 
night and the recriminations of the morning, they were un- 
willing to acknowledge their fears even to themselves, and 
much less to each other ; so the precious papers were left 
hidden under the carpet. 

“ Safe enough, in all conscience ! ” said Mr. Ducklow. 

“ Taddy ! Taddy ! now mind ! ” Mrs. Ducklow repeated 
for the twentieth time. “ Don’t you leave the house, and 
don’t you touch the matches nor the fire, and don’t go to 
ransacking the rooms neither. You won’t, will ye 1” 

“ No ’m,” answered Taddy, also for the twentieth time, — 
secretly resolved, all the while, to take advantage of their 
absence, and discover, if possible, what Mr. Ducklow brought 
home last night in his boot-leg. 

The Ducklows had intended to show their zeal and affec- 
tion by making Reuben an early visit. They were some- 
what chagrined, therefore, to find several neighbors already 
arrived to pay their respects to the returned soldier. The 
fact that Miss Beswick was among the number did not 
serve greatly to heighten their spirits. 

“ I ’ve as good a notion to turn round and go straight 
home again as ever I had to eat ! ” muttered Mrs. Duck- 
low. 

“ It ’s too late now,” said her husband, advancing with 
a show of confidence and cordiality he did not feel. “ Wal, 
Reuben ! glad to see ye ! glad to see ye ! This is a joyful 
day I source ever expected to see ! Why, ye don’t look so 
sick as I thought ye would ! Does he, mother 1 ” 

“ Dear me ! ” said Mrs. Ducklow, her woman’s nature, 
and perhaps her old motherly feelings for their adopted 
son, deeply moved by the sight of his changed and wasted 


30 


COUPON BONDS. 


aspect. “ I ’d no idee he could be so very, so very pale 
and thin ! Had you, Sophrony 1 ” 

“I don’t know what I thought,” said the young wife, 
standing by, watching her returned volunteer with features 
surcharged with emotion, — deep suffering and sympathy, 
suffused and lighted up by love and joy. “ I only know I 
have him now ! He has come home ! He shall never 
leave me again, — never ! ” 

“ But was n’t it terrible to see him brought home so 1 ” 
whispered Mrs. Ducklow. 

“ Yes, it was ! But, oh, I was so thankful ! I felt the 
worst was over ; and I had him again ! I can nurse him 
now. He is no longer hundreds of miles away, among 
strangers, where I cannot go to him, — though I should 
have gone long ago, as you know, if I could have raised the 
means, and if it had n’t been for the children. ” 

“I — I — Mr. Ducklow would have tried to help you to 
the means, and I would have taken the children, if we had 
thought it best for you to go,” said Mrs. Ducklow. “ But 
you see now it was n’t best, don’t you 1 ” 

“ Whether it was or not, I don’t complain. I am too 
happy to-day to complain of anything. To see him home 
again ! But I have dreamt so often that he came home, 
and woke up to find it was only a dream, I ’m half afraid 
now to be as happy as I might be.” 

“ Be as happy as you please, Sophrony ! ” spoke up 
Reuben, who had seemed to be listening to Mr. Ducklow’s 
apologies for not coming over the night before, while he 
was in reality straining his ear to catch every word his 
wife was saying. He was dressed in his uniform and lying 
on a lounge, supported by pillows. “I’m just where I 
want to be, of all places in this world, — or the next world 
either, I may say; for I can’t conceive of any greater 
heaven than I ’m in now. I ’m going to get well, too, spite 


COUPON BONDS. 


31 


of the doctors. Coming home is the b^*t medicine for a 
fellow in my condition. Not bad to take, either ! Stand 
here, Ruby, my boy, and let yer daddy look at ye again ! 
To think that ’s my Ruby, Pa Ducklow ! Why, he was a 
mere baby when I went away ! ” 

“ Reuben ! Reuben ! ” entreated the young wife, leaning 
over him, “ you are talking too much. You promised me 
you would n’t, you know.” 

“Well, well, I won’t. But when a fellow’s heart is chock- 
full, it ’s hard to shut down on it sometimes. Don’t look 
so, friends, as if ye pitied me ! I a’n’t to be pitied. I ’ll bet 
there is n’t one of ye half as happy as I am at this minute ! ” 

“ Here ’s Miss Beswick, Mother Ducklow,” said Sophronia. 
“ Have n’t you noticed her 1 ” 

“ Oh ! how do you do, Miss Beswick 1 ” said Mrs. Duck- 
low, appearing surprised. 

“ Tryin’ to keep out o’ the way, and make myself useful,” 
replied Miss Beswick, stiffly. 

“ I don’t know what I should do without her,” said 
Sophronia, as the tall spinster disappeared. “ She took 
right hold and helped me last night ; then she came in 
again the first thing this morning. 1 Go to your husband,’ 
says she to me ; ‘ don’t leave him a minute. I know he 
don’t want ye out of his sight, — and you don’t want to 
be out of his sight, either ; so you ’tend right to him, and 
I ’ll do the work. There ’ll be enough folks cornin’ in to 
hender, but I ’ve come in to help,’ says she. And here 
she ’s been ever since, hard at work ; for when Miss Bes- 
wick says a thing, there ’s no use opposing her, — that you 
know, Mother Ducklow.” 

“Yes, she likes to have her own way,” said Mrs. Duck- 
low, with a peculiar pucker. 

“ It seems she called at the door last night to tell you 
Reuben had come.” 


32 


COUPON BONDS. 


“ Called at the door ! Did n’t she tell you she came in 
and made us a visit ? ” 

“ No, indeed ! Did she 'i ” 

Mrs. Ducklow concluded, that, if nothing had been said 
on that subject, she might a a well remain silent ; so she 
merely remarked, — 

“ 0 yes, a visit, — for her. She a’n’t no great hand to 
make long stops, ye know.” 

“Only when she’s needed,” said Sophronia; “then she 
never thinks of going as long as she sees anything to do. 
Reuben ! you must n’t talk, Reuben ! ” 

“ I was saying,” remarked Neighbor Jepworth, “ it ’ll be 
too bad now, if you have to give up this place ; but he — ” 

Sophronia, unseen by her husband, made anxious signs to 
the speaker to avoid so distressing a topic in the invalid’s 
presence. 

“ We are not going to worry about that,” she hastened 
to say. “ After we have been favored by Providence so far 
and in such extraordinary ways, we think we can afford to 
trust still further. We have all we can think of and at- 
tend to to-day ; and the future will take care of itself.” 

“ That ’s right ; that ’s the way to talk ! ” said Mr. Duck- 
low. “ Providence ’ll take care of ye, you may be sure ! ” 

“I should think you might get Ditson to renew the 
mortgage,” observed Neighbor Ferring. “He can’t be 
hard on you, under such circumstances. And he can’t be 
so foolish as to want the money. There ’s no security like 
real estate. If I had money to invest, I would n’t put it 
into anything else.” 

“ Nor I,” said Mr. Ducklow ; “ nothin’ like real estate ! ” 
— with an expression of profound conviction. 

“ What do you think of Gov’ment bonds 1 ” asked Neigh- 
bor Jepworth. 

“ I don’t know.” Mr. Ducklow scratched his cheek and 


COUPON BONDS. 


33 


wrinkled his brow with an expression of thoughtfulness and 
candor. “ I have n’t given much attention to the subject. 
It may be a patriotic duty to lend to Gov’ment, if one has 
the funds to spare.” 

“Yes,” said Jepworth, warming. “When we consider 
that every dollar we lend to Government goes to carry on 
the war, and put down this cursed Rebellion — ” 

“ And to pay off the soldiers,” put in Reuben, raising 
himself on his elbow. “ Nobody knows the sufferings of 
soldiers and soldiers’ families on account of the Govern- 
ment’s inability to pay them off. If that subject was felt 
and understood as some I know feel and understand it, 
I ’m sure every right-minded man with fifty dollars to spare 
would make haste to lend it to Uncle Sam. I tell ye, I 
got a little excited on this subject, coming on in the cars. 
I heard a gentleman complaining of the Government for 
not paying off its creditors ; he did n’t say so much about 
the soldiers, but he thought contractors ought to have 
their claims settled at once. At the same time he said he 
had had twenty thousand dollars lying idle for two months, 
not knowing what to do with it, but had finally concluded 
to invest it in railroad stock. ‘ Have ye any Government 
stock 1 ’ said his friend. ‘Not a dollar’s worth,’ said he; 

‘ I ’m afraid ‘of it.’ Sick as I was, I could n’t lie and hear 
that. ‘ And do you know the reason,’ said I, ‘ why Gov- 
ernment cannot pay off its creditors 1 I ’ll tell ye,’ said I. 

‘ It is because it has n’t the money. And it has n’t the 
money, because such men as you, who have your thou- 
sands lying idle, refuse to lend to your country, because 
you are afraid. That ’s the extent of your patriotism : you 
are afraid ! What do you think of us who have gone into 
the war, and been willing to risk everything, — not only 
our business and our property, but life and limb ? I ’ve 
ruined myself personally,’ said I, ‘ lost my property and 

2* C 


34 


COUPON BONDS. 


my health, to be of service to my country. I don’t regret 
it, — though I should never recover, I shall not regret it. 
I ’m a tolerably patient, philosophical sort of fellow ; but I 
have n’t patience nor philosophy enough to hear such men 
as you abuse the Government for not doing what it ’s your 
duty to assist it in doing.’ ” 

“ Good for you, Reuben ! ” exclaimed Mr. Ducklow, who 
really felt obliged to the young soldier for placing the pre- 
vious day’s investment in such a strong patriotic light. 
( “ I ’ve only done my duty to Gov’ment, let Miss Beswick 
say what she will,” thought he.) “ You wound him up, I 
guess. Fact, you state the case so well, Reuben, I believe, 
if I had any funds to spare, I should n’t hesitate a minute, 
but go right off and invest in Gov’ment bonds.” 

“ That might be well enough, if you did it from a sense 
of duty,” said Neighbor Ferring, who was something of a 
croaker, and not much of a patriot. “But as an invest- 
ment, ’t would be the wust ye could make.” 

“ Ye think so ] ” said Mr. Ducklow, with quick alarm. 

“Certainly,” said Ferring. “Gov’ment ’ll repudiate. 
It ’ll have to repudiate. This enormous debt never can be 
paid. Your interest in gold is a temptation, jest now ; but 
that won’t be paid much longer, and then yer bonds won’t 
be wuth any more ’n so much brown paper.” 

“I — I don’t think so,” said Mr. Ducklow, who never- 
theless turned pale, — Ferring gave his opinion in such a 
positive, oracular way. “I don’t believe I should be 
frightened, even if I had Gov’ment securities in my hands. 
I wish I had ; I really wish I had a good lot o’ them 
bonds ! Don’t you, Jepworth 1 ” 

“They’re mighty resky things to have in the house, 
that ’s one objection to ’em,” replied Jepworth, thus adding 
breath to Ducklow’s already kindled alarm. 

“ That ’s so ! ” said Ferring, emphatically. “ I read in 


COUPON BONDS. 


35 


the papers almost every day about somebody’s having his 
cowpon bonds stole.” 

“ I should be more afraid of fires,” observed Jep worth. 

“But there’s this to be considered in favor of fires,” 
said Reuben : “ if the bonds burn up, they won’t have to be 
paid. So what is your loss is the country’s gain.” 

“ But is n’t there any — is n’t there any remedy ? ” 
inquired Ducklow, scarcely able to sit in his chair. 

“ There ’s no risk at all, if a man subscribes for registered 
bonds,” said Reuben. “ They ’re like railroad stock. But 
if you have the coupons, you must look out for them.” 

“ Why did n’t I buy registered bonds 1 ” said Ducklow to 
himself. His chair was becoming like a keg of gunpowder 
with a lighted fuse inserted. The familiar style of 
expression — “ Your bonds,” “ your loss,” “ you must look 
out ” — used by Ferring and Reuben, was not calculated to 
relieve his embarrassment. He fancied that he was sus- 
pected of owning Government securities, and that these 
careless phrases were based upon that surmise. He could 
keep his seat no longer. 

“ Wal, Reuben ! I must be drivin’ home, I s’pose. Left 
everything at loose ends. I was in such a hurry to see ye, 
and find out if there ’s anything I can do for ye.” 

“ As for that,” said Reuben, “ I ’ve got a trunk over in 
town which could n’t be brought last night. If you will 
have that sent for, I ’ll be obliged to ye.” 

“ Sartin ! sartin ! ” And Mr. Ducklow drove away, 
greatly to the relief of Mrs. Ducklow, who, listening to the 
alarming conversation, and remembering the bonds under 
the carpet, and the matches in the pantry, and Taddy’s 
propensity to mischief, felt herself (as she afterwards con- 
fessed) “jest ready to fly.” 


36 


COUPON BONDS. 


Y. 


MR. DUCKLOW’s ADVENTURES. 

Mr. Ducklow had scarcely turned the corner of the 
street, when, looking anxiously in the direction of his home- 
stead, he saw a column of smoke. It was directly over the 
spot where he knew his house to be situated. He guessed 
at a glance what had happened. The frightful catastrophe 
he foreboded had befallen. Taddy had set the house afire. 

“ Them bonds ! them bonds ! ” he exclaimed, distractedly. 
He did not think so much of the house : house and furni- 
ture were insured ; if they were burned, the inconvenience 
would be great indeed, and at any other time the thought 
of such an event would have been sufficient cause for trep- 
idation, — but now his chief, his only anxiety was the 
bonds. They were not insured. They would be a dead 
loss. And what added sharpness to his pangs, they would 
be a loss which he must keep a secret, as he had kept their 
existence a secret, — a loss which he could not confess, and 
of which he could not complain. Had he not just given 
his neighbors to understand that he held no such property 1 
And his wife, — was she not at that very moment, if not 
serving up a lie on the subject, at least paring the truth 
very thin indeed 1 

“ A man would think,” observed Ferring, “ that Ducklow 
had some o’ them bonds on his hands, and got scaret, he 
took such a sudden start. He has, — has n’t he, Mrs. 
Ducklow 1 ” 

“ Has -what 1 ” said Mrs. Ducklow, pretending ignorance. 

“ Some o’ them cowpon bonds. I ruther guess he ’s got 
some.” 

“ You mean Gov’ment bonds 1 Ducklow got some 1 


COUPON BONDS. 


37 


’T a’n’t at all likely he ’d spec’late in them, without saying 
something to me about it ! No, he could n’t have any 
without my knowing it, I ’m sure ! ” 

How demure, how innocent she looked, plying her knit- 
ting-needles, and stopping to take up a stitch ! How little 
at that moment she knew of Ducklow’s trouble, and its 
terrible cause ! 

Ducklow’s first impulse was to drive on, and endeavor 
at all hazards to snatch the bonds from the flames. His 
next was, to return and alarm his neighbors, and obtain 
their assistance. But a minute’s delay might be fatal ; so 
he drove on, screaming, “ Fire ! fire ! ” at the top of his 
voice. 

But the old mare was a slow-footed animal ; and Duck- 
low had no whip. He reached forward and struck her 
with the reins. 

“ Git up ! git up ! — Fire ! fire ! ” screamed Ducklow. 
“ 0, them bonds ! them bonds ! Why did n’t I give the 
money to Reuben 1 Fire ! fire ! fire ! ” 

By dint of screaming and slapping, he urged her from 
a trot into a gallop, which was scarcely an improvement as 
to speed, and certainly not as to grace. It was like the 
gallop of an old cow. “ Why don’t ye go ’long ! ” he cried 
despairingly. 

Slap, slap ! He knocked his own hat off with the loose 
ends of the reins. It fell under the wheels. He cast one 
look behind, to satisfy himself that it had been very thor- 
oughly run over and crushed in the dirt, and left it to 
its fate. 

Slap, slap ! “ Fire, fire ! ” Canter, canter, canter ! Neigh- 
bors looked out of their windows, and, recognizing Duck- 
low’s wagon and old mare in such an astonishing plight, 
and Ducklow himself, without his hat, rising from his seat, 
and reaching forward in wild attitudes, brandishing the 


38 


COUPON BONDS. 


reins, at the same time rending the azure with yells, 
thought he must be insane. 

He drove to the top of the hill, and looking beyond, in 
expectation of seeing his house wrapped in flames, discov- 
ered that the smoke proceeded from a brush-heap which 
his neighbor Atkins was burning in a field near by. 

The revulsion of feeling that ensued was almost too much 
for the excitable Ducklow. His strength went out of him. 
For a little while there seemed to be nothing left of him 
but tremor and cold sweat. Difficult as it had been to get 
the old mare in motion, it was now even more difficult to 
stop her. 

“ Why ! what has got into Ducklow’ s old mare ? She ’s 
running away , with him ! Who ever heard of such a 
thing ! ” And Atkins, watching the ludicrous spectacle 
from his field, became almost as weak from laughter as 
Ducklow was from the effects of fear. 

At length Ducklow succeeded in checking the old mare’s 
speed, and in turning her about. It was necessary to drive 
back for his hat. By this time he could hear a chorus of 
shouts, “ Fire ! fire ! fire ! ” over the hill. He had aroused 
the neighbors as he passed, and now they were flocking to 
extinguish the flames. 

“ A false alarm ! a false alarm ! ” said Ducklow, looking 
marvellously sheepish as he met them. “Nothing but 
Atkins’s brush-heap ! ” 

“ Seems to me you ought to have found that out ’fore 
you raised all creation with your yells ! ” said one hyper- 
bolical fellow. “You looked like the Flying Dutchman ! 
This your hat 1 I thought ’t was a dead cat in the road. 
No fire, no fire ! ” — turning back to his comrades, — “ only 
one of Ducklow’s jokes.” 

Nevertheless, two or three boys there were who would 
not be convinced, but continued to leap up, swing their 


COUPON BONDS. 


39 


cap 8 ? an( l scream “ Fire ! ” against all remonstrance. 
Ducklow did not wait to enter into explanations, but, turn- 
ing the old mare about again, drove home amid the laugh- 
ter of the bystanders and the screams of the misguided 
youngsters. As he approached the house, he met Taddy 
rushing wildly up the street. 

“ Thaddeus ! Thaddeus ! where ye goin’, Thaddeus ? ” 

“ Goin’ to the fire ! ” cried Taddy. 

“ There a’n’t any fire, boy ! ” 

“Yes, there is ! Didn’t ye hear ’em? They ’ve been 
yellin’ like fury.” 

“ It ’s nothin’ but Atkins’s brush.” 

“ That all 1 ” And Taddy appeared very much disap- 
pointed. “ I thought there was goin’ to be some fun. I 
wonder who was such a fool as to yell fire jest for a darned 
old brush-heap ! ” 

Ducklow did not inform him. 

“ I ’ve got to drive over to town and git Reuben’s trunk. 
You stand by the mare while I step in and brush my hat.” 

Instead of applying himself at once to the restoration of 
his beaver, he hastened to the sitting-room, to see that the 
bonds were safe. 

“ Heavens and ’arth ! ” said Ducklow. 

The chair, which had been carefully planted in the spot 
where they were concealed, had been removed. Three or 
four tacks had been taken out, and the carpet pushed from 
the wall. There was straw scattered about. Evidently 
Taddy had been interrupted, in the midst of his ransack- 
ing, by the alarm of fire. Indeed, he was even now creep- 
ing into the house to see what notice Ducklow would take 
of these evidences of his mischief. 

In great trepidation the farmer thrust in his hand here 
and there, and groped, until he found the envelope precise- 
ly where it had been placed the night before, with the tape 


40 


COUPON BONDS. 


tied around it, which his wife had put on to prevent its 
contents from slipping out and losing themselves. Great 
was the joy of Ducklow. Great also was the wrath of him 
when he turned and discovered Taddy. 

“ Did n’t I tell you to stand by the old mare 1 ” 

“She won’t stir,” said Taddy, shrinking away again. 

“ Come here ! ” And Ducklow grasped him by the col- 
lar. “ What have you been doin’ 1 Look at that ! ” 

“ ’T wa’n’t me!” — beginning to whimper, and ram his 
fists into his eyes. 

“ Don’t tell me ’t wa’n’t you ! ” Ducklow shook him till 
his teeth chattered. “ What was you pullin’ up the carpet 
fori” 

“ Lost a marble ! ” snivelled Taddy. 

“ Lost a marble ! Ye didn’t lose it under the carpet, 
did ye 1 Look at all that straw pulled out ! ” — shaking 
him again. 

“Didn’t know but it might ’a’ got under the carpet, 
marbles roll so,” explained Taddy, as soon as he could get 
his breath. 

“ Wal, sir ! ” Ducklow administered a resounding box 
on his ear. “ Don’t you do such a thing again, if you lose 
a million marbles ! ” 

“ Ha’n’t got a million ! ” Taddy wept, rubbing his cheek. 
“ Ha’n’t got but four ! Won’t ye buy me some to-day 1 ” 

“ Go to that mare, and don’t you leave her again till I 
come, or I ’ll marble ye in a way you won’t like ! ” 

Understanding, by this somewhat equivocal form of ex- 
pression, that flagellation was threatened, Taddy obeyed, 
still feeling his smarting and burning ear. 

Ducklow was in trouble. What should he do with the 
bonds 1 The floor was no place for them, after what had 
happened , and he remembered too well the experience of 
yesterday to think for a moment of carrying them about 


COUPON BONDS. 


41 


his person. With unreasonable impatience, his mind 
reverted to Mrs. Ducklow. 

“ Why a’n’t she to home ? These women are forever 
a-gaddin’ ! I wish Reuben’s trunk was in Jericho ! ” 

Thinking of the trunk reminded him of one in the garret, 
filled with old papers of all sorts, — newspapers, letters, 
bills of sale, children’s writing-books, — accumulations of 
the past quarter of a century. Neither fire nor burglar 
nor ransacking youngster had ever molested those ancient 
records during all those five-and-twenty years. A bright 
thought struck him. 

“ I ’ll slip the bonds down into that wuthless heap o’ 
rubbish, where no one ’u’d ever think o’ lookin’ for ’em, and 
resk ’em.” 

Having assured himself that Taddy was standing by the 
wagon, he paid a hasty visit to the trunk in the garret, and 
concealed the envelope, still bound in its band of tape, 
among the papers. He then drove away, giving Taddy a 
final charge to beware of setting anything afire. 

He had driven about half a mile when he met a pedler. 
There was nothing unusual or alarming in such a circum- 
stance, surely ; but as Ducklow kept on, it troubled him. 

“ He ’ll stop to the house now, most likely, and want to 
trade. Findin’ nobody but Taddy, there’s no knowin’ 
what he ’ll be tempted to do. But I a’n’t a-goin’ to worry. 
I ’ll defy anybody to find them bonds. Besides, she may 
be home by this time. I guess she’ll hear of the fire- 
alarm, and hurry home : it ’ll be jest like her. She ’ll be 
there, — and — trade with the pedler ? ” thought Ducklow, 
uneasily. Then a frightful fancy possessed him. “She 
has threatened two or three times to sell that trunkful of 
old papers. He ’ll offer a big price for ’em, and ten to one 
she ’ll let him have ’em. Why did n't I consider on ’t i 
What a stupid blunderbuss I be ! ” 


42 


COUPON BONDS. 


As Ducklow thought of it he felt almost certain that 
Mrs. Ducklow had returned home, and that she was bar- 
gaining with the pedler at that moment. He fancied her 
smilingly receiving bright tin-ware for the old papers ; and 
he could see the tape-tied envelope going into the bag with 
the rest. The result was that he turned about and wdiipped 
the old mare home again in terrific haste, to catch the 
departing pedler. 

Arriving, he found the house as he had left it, and Taddy 
occupied in making a kite-frame. 

“ Did that pedler stop here 1 ” 

“ I ha’n’t seen no pedler.” 

“ And ha’n’t yer Ma Ducklow been home, neither 1 ” 

“ No.” 

And with a guilty look, Taddy put the kite-frame behind 
him. 

Ducklow considered. The pedler had turned up a cross- 
street : he would probably turn down again and stop at the 
house after all : Mrs. Ducklow might by that time be at 
home : then the sale of old papers would very likely 
take place. Ducklow thought of leaving word that he did 
not wish any old papers in the house to be sold, but feared 
the request might excite Taddy’ s suspicions. 

“ I don’t see no way but for me to take the bonds with 
me,” thought he, with an inward groan. 

He accordingly went to the garret, took the envelope 
out of the trunk, and placed it in the breast-pocket of his 
overcoat, to which he pinned it, to prevent it by smy 
chance from getting out. He used six large, strong pins 
for the purpose, and was afterwards sorry he did not use 
seven. 

“ There ’s suthin’ losin’ out of yer pocket ! ” bawled 
Taddy, as he was once more mounting the wagon. 

Quick as lightning, Ducklow clapped his hand to his 


COUPON BONDS. 


43 


breast. In doing so, he loosed his hold of the wagon-box 
and fell, raking his shin badly on the wheel. 

“ Yer side-pocket ! it ’s one o’ yer mittens ! ” said Taddy. 

“ You rascal ! how you scaret me ! ” 

Seating himself in the wagon, Ducklow gently pulled up 
his trousers-leg to look at the bruised part. 

“ Got anything in yer boot-leg to-day, Pa Ducklow ? ” 
asked Taddy, innocently. 

“Yes, a barked shin ! — all on your account, too ! Go 
and put that straw back, and fix the carpet ; and don’t ye 
let me hear ye speak of my boot-leg again, or I ’ll boot-leg 
ye ! ” 

So saying, Ducklow departed. 

Instead of repairing the mischief he had done in the 
sitting-room, Taddy devoted his time and talents to the 
more interesting occupation of constructing his kite-frame. 
He worked at that, until Mr. Grantley, the minister, driv- 
ing by, stopped to inquire how the folks were. 

“ A’n’t to home may I ride ? ” cried Taddy, all in a breath. 

Mr. Grantley was an indulgent old gentleman, fond of 
children ; so he said, “ Jump in ” ; and in a minute Taddy 
had scrambled to a seat by his side. 


YI. 

MRS. DUCKLOW’S ADVENTURES. 

And now occurred a circumstance which Ducklow had 
foreseen. The alarm of fire had reached Reuben’s ; and 
although the report of its falseness followed immediately, 
Mrs. Ducklow’s inflammable fancy was so kindled by it 
that she could find no comfort in prolonging her visit. 


44 


COUPON BONDS. 


“ Mr. Ducklow ’ll be going for the trunk, and I must go 
home and see to things, Taddy ’s such a fellow for mis- 
chief ! I can foot it ; I sha’ n’t mind it.” 

And off she started, walking herself out of breath in her 
anxiety. 

She reached the brow of the hill just in time to see a 
chaise drive away from her own door. 

“ Who can that be % I wonder if Taddy ’s there to guard 
the house ! If anything should happen to them bonds ! ” 

Out of breath as she was, she quickened her pace, and 
trudged on, flushed, perspiring, panting, until she reached 
the house. 

“ Thaddeus ! ” she called. 

No Taddy answered. She went in. The house was de- 
serted. And lo ! the carpet torn up and the bonds ab- 
stracted. 

Mr. Ducklow never would have made such work, remov- 
ing the bonds. Then somebody else must have taken 
them, she reasoned. 

“ The man in the chaise ! ” she exclaimed, or rather 
made an effort to exclaim, succeeding only in bringing forth 
a hoarse, gasping sound. Fear dried up articulation. Vox 
faucibus hcesit. 

And Taddy 1 He had disappeared ; been murdered, per- 
haps, — or gagged and carried away by the man in the 
chaise. 

Mrs. Ducklow flew hither and thither, (to use a favorite 
phrase of her own), “like a hen with her head cut off” ; 
then rushed out of the house, and up the street, screaming 
after the chaise, — 

“ Murder ! murder ! Stop thief ! stop thief ! ” 

She waved her hands aloft in the air frantically. If she 
had trudged before, now she trotted, now she cantered : 
but if the cantering of the old mare was fitly likened to 


COUPON BONDS. 


45 


that of a cow, to what thing, to what manner of motion 
under the sun, shall we liken the cantering of Mrs. Duck- 
low 1 It was original ; it was unique ; it was prodigious. 
Now, with her frantically waving hands, and all her undu- 
lating and flapping skirts, she seemed a species of huge, 
unwieldy bird attempting to fly. Then she sank down into 
a heavy, dragging walk, — breath and strength all gone, — 
no voice left even to scream murder. Then the awful re- 
alization of the loss of the bonds once more rushing over 
her, she started up again. “Half running, half flying, 
what progress she made ! ” Then Atkins’s dog saw her, 
and, naturally mistaking her for a prodigy, came out at 
her, bristling up and bounding and barking terrifically. 

“ Come here ! ” cried Atkins, following the dog. 
“ What ’s the matter ? What *s to pay, Mrs. Ducklow ? ” 

Attempting to speak, the good woman could only pant 
and wheeze. 

“ Robbed ! ” she at last managed to whisper, amid the 
yelpings of the cur that refused to be silenced. 

“ Robbed ? How? Who?” 

“ The chaise ! Ketch it ! ” 

Her gestures expressed more than her words ; and At- 
kins’s horse and wagon, with which he had been drawing 
out brush, being in the yard near by, he ran to them, 
leaped to the seat, drove into the road, took Mrs. Ducklow 
aboard, and set out in vigorous pursuit of the slow two- 
wheeled vehicle. 

“ Stop, you, sir ! Stop, you, sir ! ” shrieked Mrs. Duck- 
low, having recovered her breath by the time they came up 
with the chaise. 

It stopped,, and Mr. Grantley the minister put out his 
good-natured, surprised face. 

“ You ’ve robbed my house ! You ’ve took — ” # 

Mrs. Ducklow was going on in wild, accusatory accents, 
when she recognized the benign countenance. 


46 


COUPON BONDS. 


“What do you say? I have robbed you?” he ex- 
claimed, very much astonished. 

“No, no ! not you ! You would n’t do such a thing ! ” 
she stammered forth, while Atkins, who had laughed him- 
self weak at Mr. Ducklow’s plight earlier in the morning, 
now went off into a side-ache at Mrs. Ducklow’s ludicrous 
mistake. “ But did you — did you stop at my house ? 
Have you seen our Thaddeus ? ” 

“ Here I be, Ma Ducklow ! ” piped a small voice ; and 
Taddy, who had till then remained hidden, fearing punish- 
ment, peeped out of the chaise from behind the broad back 
of the minister. 

“ Taddy ! Taddy ! how came the carpet — ” 

“ I pulled it up, huntin’ for a marble,” said Taddy, as 
she paused, overmastered by her emotions. 

“ And the — the thing tied up in a yaller wrapper ? ” 

“ Pa Ducklow took it.” 

“Ye sure? ” 

“ Yes, I seen him ! ” 

“ 0 dear ! ” said Mrs. Ducklow, “ I never was so beat ! 
Mr. Grantley, I hope — excuse me — I did n’t know what 
I was about ! Taddy, you notty boy, what did you leave 
the house for ? Be ye quite sure yer Pa Ducklow — ” 
Taddy repeated that he was quite sure, as he climbed 
from the chaise into Atkins’s wagon. The minister smil- 
ingly remarked that he hoped she would find no robbery 
had been committed, and went his way. Atkins, driving 
back, and setting her and Taddy down at the Ducklow 
gate, answered her embarrassed “Much obleeged to ye,” 
with a sincere “Not at all,” considering the fun he had 
had a sufficient compensation for his trouble. And thus 
ended the morning’s adventures, with the exception of an 
unimportant episode, in which Taddy, Mrs. Ducklow, and 
Mrs. Ducklow’s rattan were the principal actors. 


COUPON BONDS. 


47 


VII. 

THE JOURNEY. 

At noon Mr. Ducklow returned. 

“ Did ye take the bonds 1 ” was his wife’s first question. 

“ Of course I did ! Ye don’t suppose I ’d go away and 
leave ’em in the house, not knowin’ when you ’d be cornin’ 
home 1 ” 

“ Wal, I did n’t know. And I did n’t know whuther to 
believe Taddy or not. 0, I ’ve had such a fright ! ” 

And she related the story of her pursuit of the minis- 
ter. 

“How could ye make such a fool of yerselfl It’ll git 
all over town, and I shall be mortified to death. Jest like 
a woman to git frightened ! ” 

“ If you had n’t got frightened, and made a fool of your- 
self ’ yellin’ fire, ’t would n’t have happened ! ” retorted 
Mrs. Ducklow. 

“ Wal ! wal ! say no more about it ! The bonds are 
safe.” 

“ I was in hopes you ’d change ’em for them registered 
bonds Reuben spoke of.” 

“ I did try to, but they told me to the bank it could n’t 
be did. Then I asked ’em if they would keep ’em for 
me, and they said they would n’t object to lockin’ on ’em 
up in their safe ; but they would n’t give me no receipt, 
nor hold themselves responsible for ’em. I did n’t know 
what else to do, so I handed ’em the bonds to keep.” 

“ I want to know if you did now ! ” exclaimed Mrs. 
Ducklow, disapprovingly. 

“ Why not 1 What else could I do ? I did n’t want to 
lug ’em around with me forever. And as for keepin’ ’em 


48 


COUPON BONDS. 


hid in the house, we ’ve tried that ! ” and Ducklow un- 
folded his weekly newspaper. 

Mrs. Ducklow was placing the dinner on the table, with 
a look which seemed to say, “ / would n’t have left the 
bonds in the bank ; my judgment would have been better 
than all that. If they are lost, I sha’ n’t be to blame ! ” 
when suddenly Ducklow started and uttered a cry of con- 
sternation over his newspaper. 

“ Why, what have ye found 1 ” 

“ Bank robbery ! ” 

“ Not your bank 1 Not the bank where your bonds — ” 

“ Of course not ; but in the very next town ! The safe 
blown open with gunpowder ! Five thousand dollars in 
Gov’ment bonds stole ! ” 

“ How strange ! ” said Mrs. Ducklow. “ Now what did 
I tell ye?” 

“ I believe you ’re right,” cried Ducklow, starting to his 
feet. “ They ’ll be safer in my own house, or even in my 
own pocket ! ” 

“ If you was going to put ’em in any safe, why not put 
’em in Josiah’s 1 He ’s got a safe, ye know.” 

“ So he has ! We might drive over there and make a 
visit Monday, and ask him to lock up — yes, we might 
tell him and Laury all about it, and leave ’em in their 
charge.” 

“ So we might ! ” said Mrs. Ducklow. 

Laura was their daughter and Josiah her husband, in 
whose honor and sagacity they placed unlimited confidence. 
The plan was resolved upon at once. 

“ To-morrow ’s Sunday,” said Ducklow, pacing the floor. 
“ If we leave the bonds in the bank over night, they must 
stay there till Monday.” 

“ And Sunday is jest the day for burglars to operate ! ” 
added Mrs. Ducklow. 


COUPON BONDS. 


49 


I ’ve a good notion — let me see ! ” said Ducklow, 
looking at the clock. “ Twenty minutes after twelve ! 
Bank closes at two ! An hour and a half, — I believe I 
could git there in an hour and a half. I will. I ’ll take a 
bite and drive right back.” 

Which he accordingly did, and brought the tape-tied 
envelope home with him again. That night he slept with 
it under his pillow. The next day was Sunday ; and al- 
though Mr. Ducklow did not like to have the bonds on his 
mind during sermon-time, and Mrs. Ducklow “ dreaded 
dreadfully,” as she said, “to look the minister in the face,” 
they concluded that it was best, on the whole, to go to 
meeting, and carry the bonds. With the envelope once 
more in his breast-pocket (stitched in this time by Mrs. 
Ducklow’s own hand), the farmer sat under the droppings 
of the sanctuary, and stared up at the good minister, but 
without hearing a word of the discourse, his mind was so 
engrossed by worldly cares, until the preacher exclaimed 
vehemently, looking straight at Ducklow’s pew, — 

“ What said Paul 1 ‘ I would to God that not only thou, 
but also all that hear me this day, were both almost and 
altogether such as I am, except these bonds. 1 * Except these 
bonds ’ / ” he repeated, striking the Bible. “ Can you, my 
hearers, — can you say with Paul, ‘Would that all were 
as I am, except these bonds ’ ? ” 

A point which seemed for a moment so personal to him- 
self, that Ducklow was filled with confusion, and would 
certainly have stammered out some foolish answer, had not 
the preacher passed on to other themes. As it was, Duck- 
low contented himself with glancing around to see if the 
congregation was looking at him, and carelessly passing his 
hand across his breast-pocket to make sure the bonds were 
still there. 

Early the next morning, the old mare was harnessed, 


50 


COUPON BONDS. 


and Taddy’s adopted parents set out to visit their daugh- 
ter, — Mrs. Ducklow having postponed her washing for the 
purpose. It was afternoon when they arrived at their 
journey’s end. Laura received them joyfully, but Josiah 
was not expected home until evening. Mr. Ducklow put 
the old mare in the barn, and fed her, and then went in to 
dinner, feeling very comfortable indeed. 

“ Josiah ’s got a nice place here. That ’s about as slick 
a little barn as ever I see. Always does me good to come 
over here and see you giftin' along so nicely, Laury.” 

“ I wish you ’d come oftener, then,” said Laura. 

“ Wal, it ’s hard leavin’ home, ye know. Have to git 
one of the Atkins boys to come and sleep with Taddy the 
night we ’re away.” 

‘‘We should n’t have come to-day, if ’t had n’t been for 
me,” remarked Mrs. Ducklow. “ Says I to your father, says 
I, ‘ I feel as if I wanted to go over and see Laury ; it seems 
an age since I ’ve seen her,’ says I. ‘Wal,’ says he, ‘ s’pos’n’ 
we go ! ’ says he. That was only last Saturday ; and this 
morning we started.” 

“ And it ’s no fool of a job to make the journey with the 
old mare ! ” said Ducklow. 

“ Why don’t you drive a better horse ? ” said Laura, 
whose pride was always touched when her parents came to 
visit her with the old mare and the one-horse wagon. 

“ 0, she answers my purpose. Hoss-flesh is high, Laury. 
Have to economize, these times.” 

“ I ’m sure there ’s no need of your economizing ! ” 
exclaimed Laura, leading the way to the dining-room. 
“ Why don’t you use your money, and have the good of it 1” 

“ So I tell him,” said Mrs. Ducklow, faintly. — “ Why, 
Laura ! I did n’t want you to be to so much trouble to git 
dinner jest for us ! A bite would have answered. Do see, 
father ! ” 


COUPON BONDS 


51 


VIII. 

WHAT MR. DUCKLOW CARRIED IN THE ENVELOPE. 

At evening Josiah came home ; and it was not until then 
that Ducklow mentioned the subject which was foremost 
in his thoughts. 

“What do ye think o’ Gov’ment bonds, Josiah 1 ” he 
incidentally inquired, after supper. 

“ First-rate ! ” said Josiah. 

“About as safe as anything, a’n’t they?” said Ducklow, 
encouraged. 

“ Safe ? ” cried Josiah. “ Just look at the resources 
of this country ! Nobody has begun to appreciate the 
power and undeveloped wealth of these United States. 
It ’s a big rebellion, I know ; but we ’re going to put it 
down. It ’ll leave us a big debt, very sure ; but we handle 
it now as easy as that child lifts that stool. It makes him 
grunt and stagger a little, not because he is n’t strong 
enough for it, but because he don’t understand his own 
strength, or how to use it : he ’ll have twice the strength, 
and know just how to apply it, in a little while. Just so 
with this country. It makes me laugh to hear folks talk 
about repudiation and bankruptcy.” 

“But s’pos’n’ we do put down the rebellion, and the 
States come back : then what ’s to hender the South, and 
Secesh sympathizers in the North, from j’inin’ hands and 
votin’ that the debt sha’ n’t be paid ? ” 

“ Don’t you worry about that ! Do ye suppose we ’re 
going to be such fools as to give the rebels, after we ’ve 
whipped ’em, the same political power they had before the 
war ? Not by a long chalk ! Sooner than that we ’ll put 
the ballot into the hands of the freedmen. They ’re our 


52 


COUPON BONDS. 


friends. They ’ve fought on the right side, and they ’ll 
vote on the right side. I tell ye, spite of all the prejudice 
there is against black skins, we a’n’t such a nation of nin- 
nies as to give up all we ’re fighting for, and leave our 
best friends and allies, not to speak of our own interests, in 
the hands of our enemies.” 

“You consider Gov’ments a good investment, then, do 
ye 1 ” said Ducklow, growing radiant. 

“ I do, decidedly, — the very best. Besides, you help 
the Government ; and that ’s no small consideration.” 

“ So I thought. But how is it about the cowpon bonds ? 
A’n’t they ruther ticklish property to have in the house 1 ” 

“ Well, I don’t know. Think how many years you ’ll 
keep old bills and documents and never dream of such a 
thing as losing them ! There ’s not a bit more danger 
with the bonds. I should n’t want to carry ’em around 
with me, to any great amount, — though I did once carry 
three thousand-dollar bonds in my pocket for a week. I 
did n’t mind it.” 

“ Curi’s ! ” said Ducklow : “ I ’ve got three thousan’- 
dollar bonds in my pocket this minute ! ” 

“ Well, it ’s so much good property,” said Josiah, appear- 
ing not at all surprised at the circumstance. 

“ Seems to me, though, if I had a safe, as you have, I 
should lock ’em up in it.” 

“I was travelling that week. I locked ’em up pretty 
soon after I got home, though.” 

“Suppose,” said Ducklow, as if the thought had but 
just occurred to him, — “ suppose you put my bonds into 
your safe : I shall feel easier.” 

“ Of course,” replied Josiah. “ I ’ll keep ’em for you, if 
you like.” 

“ It will be an accommodation. They ’ll be safe, will 


COUPON BONDS. 


53 


" Safe as mine are ; safe as anybody’s : I ’ll insure ’em 
for twenty-five cents.” 

Ducklow was happy. Mrs. Ducklow was happy. She 
took her husband’s coat, and with a pair of scissors cut the 
threads that stitched the envelope to the pocket. 

“ Have you tom off the May coupons 1 ” asked Josiah. 

“ No.” 

“Well, you’d better. They’ll be payable now soon; 
and if you take them, you won’t have to touch the bonds 
again till the interest on the November coupons is due.” 

“ A good idee ! ” said Ducklow. 

He took the envelope, untied the tape, and removed the 
contents. Suddenly the glow of comfort, the gleam of 
satisfaction, faded from his countenance. 

“ Hello ! What ye got there 1 ” cried Josiah. 

“ Why, father ! massy sakes ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Ducklow. 

As for Ducklow himself, he could not utter a word ; but, 
dumb with consternation, he looked again in the envelope, 
and opened and turned inside out, and shook, with 
trembling hands, its astonishing contents. The bonds 
were not there : they had been stolen, and three copies of 
the “ Sunday Visitor ” had been inserted in their place. 


IX. 

FOOD FOR REFLECTION. 

Very early on the following morning a dismal-faced, 
middle-aged couple might have been seen riding away from 
Josiah’s house. It was the Ducklows returning home, 
after their fruitless, their worse than fruitless, journey. 
No entreaties could prevail upon them to prolong their 


54 


COUPON BONDS. 


visit. It was with difficulty even that they had been pre- 
vented from setting off immediately on the discovery of 
their loss, and travelling all night, in their impatience to 
get upon the track of the missing bonds. 

“ There ’ll be not the least use in going to-night,” Josiah 
had said. “ If they were stolen at the bank, you can’t do 
anything about it till to-morrow. And even if they were 
taken from your own house, I don’t see what ’s to be gained 
now by hurrying back. You may just as well take it easy, 
— go to bed and sleep on ’t, and get a fresh start in the 
morning.” 

So, much against their inclination, the unfortunate own- 
ers of the abstracted bonds retired to the luxurious cham- 
ber Laura gave them, and lay awake all night, groaning 
and sighing, wondering and surmising, and (I regret to 
add) blaming each other. So true it is, that “ modern 
conveniences,” hot and cold water all over the house, a 
pier-glass, and the most magnificently canopied couch, 
avail nothing to give tranquillity to the harassed mind. 
Hitherto the Ducklows had felt great satisfaction in the 
style their daughter, by her marriage, was enabled to sup- 
port. To brag of her nice house and furniture and two 
servants was almost as good as possessing them. Remem- 
bering her rich dining-room and silver service and porcelain, 
they were proud. Such things were enough for the honor 
of the family ; and, asking nothing for themselves, they 
slept well in their humblest of bedchambers, and sipped 
their tea contentedly out of clumsy earthen. But that 
night the boasted style in which their “ darter ” lived was 
less appreciated than formerly ; fashion and splendor were 
no longer a consolation. 

“ If we had only given the three thousan’ dollars to 
Reuben ! ” said Ducklow, driving homewards with a coun- 
tenance as long as his whip-lash. “ ’T would have jest set 


COUPON BONDS. 


55 


him up, and been some compensation for his suffering and 
losses goin’ to the war.” 

“ Wal, I had no objections,” replied Mrs. Ducklow. “I 
always thought he ought to have the money eventooally. 
And, as Miss Beswick said, no doubt it would ’a’ been ten 
times the comfort to him now it would be a number o’ 
years from now. But you did n’t seem willing.” 

“ I don’t know ! ’t was you that was n’t willin’ ! ” 

And they expatiated on Reuben’s merits, and their 
benevolent intentions towards him, and, in imagination, 
endowed him with the price of the bonds over and over 
again : so easy is it to be generous with lost money ! 

“ But it ’s no use talkin’ ! ” said Ducklow. “ I ha’n’t 
the least idee we shall ever see the color o’ them bonds 
again. If they was stole to the bank, I can’t prove any- 
thing.” 

“ It does seem strange to me,” Mrs. Ducklow replied, 
“that you should have no more gumption than to trust 
bonds with strangers, when they told you in so many the 
words they would n’t be responsible.” 

“ If you have flung that in my teeth once, you have fifty 
times ! ” And Ducklow lashed the old mare, as if she, and 
not Mrs. Ducklow, had exasperated him. 

“ Wal,” said the lady, “I don’t see how we’re going to 
work to find ’em, now they ’re lost, without making inqui- 
ries; and we can’t make inquiries without letting it be 
known we had bought.” 

“ I been thinkin’ about that,” said her husband. “ 0 
dear ! ” with a groan ; “ I wish the pesky cowpon bonds 
had never been invented ! ” 

They drove first to the bank, where they were of course 
told that the envelope had not been untied there. u Besides, 
it was sealed, was n’t it 1 ” said the cashier. “ Indeed ! ” 
He expressed great surprise, when informed that it was 


56 


COUPON BONDS. 


not. “ It should have been : I supposed any child would 
know enough to look out for that ! ” 

And this was all the consolation Ducklow could obtain. 

“ Just as I expected,” said Mrs. Ducklow, as they resumed 
their journey. “ I just as much believe that man stole 
your bonds as that you trusted ’em in his hands in an un- 
sealed wrapper ! Beats all how you could be so careless ! ” 
“Wal, wal ! I s’pose I never shall hear the last on ’t ! ” 
And again the poor old mare had to suffer for Mrs. 
Ducklow’ s offences. 

They had but one hope now, — that perhaps Taddy had 
tampered with the envelope, and that the bonds might be 
found somewhere about the house. But this hope was 
quickly extinguished on their arrival. Taddy, being ac- 
cused, protested his innocence with a vehemence which con- 
vinced even Mr. Ducklow that the cashier was probably the 
guilty party. 

“ Unless,” said he, brandishing the rattan, “somebody 
got into the house that morning when the little scamp run 
off to ride with the minister ! ” 

“ 0, don’t lick me for that ! I ’ve been licked for that 
once ! ha’n’t I, Ma Ducklow 'l ” shrieked Taddy. 

“ And besides, you ’d took ’em with you, remember,” 
said Mrs. Ducklow. 

The house was searched in vain. No clew to the 
purloined securities could be obtained, — the copies of the 
“ Sunday Visitor,” which had been substituted for them, 
affording not the least ; for that valuable little paper was 
found in almost every household, except Ducklow’s. 

“ I don’t see any way left but to advertise, as Josiah 
said,” remarked the farmer, with a deep sigh of despondency. 

“ And that ’ll bring it all out ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Ducklow. 
“ If you only had n’t been so imprudent ! ” 

“ Wal, wal !” said Ducklow, cutting her short. 


COUPON BONDS. 


57 


X. 

Reuben’s misfortune. 

Before resorting to public measures for the recovery of 
the stolen property, it was deemed expedient to acquaint 
their friends with their loss in a private way. The next 
day, accordingly, they went to pay Reuben a visit. It 
was a very different meeting from that which took place a 
few mornings before. The returned soldier had gained in 
health, but not in spirits. The rapture of reaching home 
once more, the flush of hope and happiness, had passed 
away with the visitors who had flocked to offer their 
congratulations. He had had time to reflect : he had 
reached home, indeed ; but now every moment reminded 
him how soon that home was to be taken from him. He 
looked at his wife and children, and clenched his teeth 
hard to stifle the emotions that arose at the thought of 
their future. The sweet serenity, the faith and patience 
and cheerfulness, which never ceased to illumine Sophro- 
nia’s face as she moved about the house, pursuing her 
daily tasks, and tenderly waiting upon him, deepened at 
once his love and his solicitude. He was watching her thus 
when the Ducklows entered with countenances mournful 
as the grave. 

“ How are you gittin’ along, Reuben?” said Ducklow, 
while his wife murmured a solemn “ good morning ” to 
Sophronia. 

“ I am doing well enough. Don’t be at all concerned 
about me ! It a’n’t pleasant to lie here, and feel it may 
be months, months, before I ’m able to be about my busi- 
ness ; but I would n’t mind it, — I could stand it first-rate, 
— I could stand anything, anything, but to see her work- 
3 * 


58 


COUPON BONDS. 


ing her life out for me and the children ! To no purpose, 
either ; that ’s the worst of it. We shall have to lose this 
place, spite of fate ! ” 

“ 0 Reuben ! ” said Sophronia, hastening to him, and 
laying her soothing hands upon his hot forehead ; “ why 
won’t you stop thinking about that 1 Do try to have more 
faith ! We shall be taken care of, I ’m sure ! ” 

“ If I had three thousand dollars, — yes, or even two, — 
then I ’d have faith ! ” said Reuben. “ Miss Beswick has 
proposed to send a subscription-paper around town for us ; 
but I ’d rather die than have it done. Besides, nothing 
near that amount could be raised, I ’m confident. You 
need n’t groan so, Pa Ducklow, for I ain’t hinting at you. 

I don’t expect you to help me out of my trouble. If you 
had felt called upon to do it, you ’d have done it before 
now ; and I don’t ask, I don’t beg of any man ! ” added 
the soldier, proudly. 

“ That ’s right ; I like yer sperit ! ” said the miserable 
Ducklow. “ But I was sighin’ to think of something, — 
something you have n’t known anything about, Reuben.” 

“ Yes, Reuben, we should have helped you,” said Mrs. 
Ducklow, “ and did, did take steps towards it — ” 

“ In fact,” resumed Ducklow, “ you ’ve met with a great 
misfortin’, Reuben. Unbeknown to yourself, you ’ve met 
with a great misfortin’ ! Yer Ma Ducklow knows.” 

“Yes, Reuben, the very day you come home, your Pa 
Ducklow made an investment for your benefit. We did n’t 
mention it, — you know I would n’t own up to it, though 
I did n’t exactly say the contrary, the morning we was 
over here — ” 

“ Because,” said Ducklow, as she faltered, “ we wanted 
to surprise you ; we was keepin’ it a secret till the right 
time, then we was goin’ to make it a pleasant surprise to 
ye.” 


COUPON BONDS. 


59 


“ What in the name of common sense are you talking 
about 1 ” cried Reuben, looking from one to the other of 
the wretched, prevaricating pair. 

“ Cowpon bonds ! ” groaned Ducklow. “ Three thousan’- 
dollar cowpon bonds ! The money had been lent, but I 
wanted to make a good investment for you, and I thought 
there was nothin’ so good as Gov’ments — ” 

“That’s all right,” said Reuben. “Only, if you had 
money to invest for my benefit, I should have preferred 
to pay off the mortgage the first thing.” 

“ Sartin ! sartin ! ” said Ducklow ; “ and you could have 
turned the bonds right in, if you had so chosen, like so much 
cash. Or you could have drawed your interest on the 
bonds in gold, and paid the interest on your mortgage in 
currency, and made so much, as I ruther thought you 
would.” 

“ But the bonds ? ” eagerly demanded Reuben, with 
trembling hopes, just as Miss Beswick, with her shawl over 
her head, entered the room. 

“We was just telling about our loss, Reuben’s loss,” 
said Mrs. Ducklow, in a manner which betrayed no little 
anxiety to conciliate that terrible woman. 

“ Very well ! don’t let me interrupt.” And Miss Bes- 
wick, slipping the shawl from her head, sat down. 

Her presence, stiff and prim and sarcastic, did not tend 
in the least to relieve Mr. Ducklow from the natural em- 
barrassment he felt in giving his version of Reuben’s loss. 
However, assisted occasionally by a judicious remark 
thrown in by Mrs. Ducklow, he succeeded in telling a suf- 
ficiently plausible and candid-seeming story. 


60 


COUPON BONDS. 


XI. 

taddy’s financial operations. 

“ I see ! I see ! ” said Reuben, who had listened with as- 
tonishment and pain to the narrative. “You had kinder 
intentions towards me than I gave you credit for. For- 
give me, if I wronged you ! ” He pressed the hand of his 
adopted father, and thanked him from a heart filled with 
gratitude and trouble. “ But don’t feel so bad about it. 
You did what you thought best. I can only say, the fates 
are against me.” 

“ Hem ! ” coughing, Miss Beswick stretched up her long 
neck and cleared her throat. “ So them bonds you had 
bought for Reuben was in the house the very night I 
called ! ” 

“ Yes, Miss Beswick,” replied Mrs. Ducklow ; “ and that ’s 
what made it so uncomfortable to us to have you talk the 
way you did.” 

“ Hem ! ” the neck was stretched up still farther than 
before, and the redoubtable throat cleared again. “ ’T was 
too bad ! Ye ought to have told me. You ’d actooally 
bought the bonds, — bought ’em for Reuben, had ye 1 ” 

“ Sartain ! sartain ! ” said Ducklow.) 

“To be sure ! ” said Mrs. Ducklow. 

“We designed ’em for his benefit, a surprise, when the 
right time come,” said both together. 

“ Hem ! well ! ” (It was evident that the Beswick was 
clearing her decks for action.) “When the right time 
come ! yes ! That right time was n’t somethin’ indefinite, 
in the fur futur’, of course ! Yer losin’ the bonds did n’t 
hurry up yer benevolence the least grain, I s’pose ! Hem ! 
let in them boys, Sophrony ! ” 


COUPON BONDS. 


61 


Sophronia opened the door, and in walked Master Dick 
Atkins (son of the brush-burner), followed, not without re- 
luctance and concern, by Master Taddy. 

“ Thaddeus ! what you here for 1 ” demanded the adopt- 
ed parents. 

“ Because I said so,” remarked Miss Beswick, arbitrarily. 
“ Step along, boys, step along. Hold up yer head, Taddy, 
for ye’ an’t goin’ to be hurt while I ’m around. Take yer 
fists out o’ yer eyes, and stop blubberin’. Mr. Ducklow, 
that boy knows somethin’ about Reuben’s cowpon bonds.” 

“ Thaddeus ! ” ejaculated both Ducklows at once, “ did 
you touch them bonds 1 ” 

“ Did n’t know what they was ! ” whimpered Taddy. 

“Did you take them 1 ?” And the female Ducklow 
grasped his shoulder. 

“ Hands off, if you please ! ” remarked Miss Beswick, 
with frightfully gleaming courtesy. “ I told him, if he ’d 
be a good boy, and come along with Richard, and tell the 
truth, he should n’t be hurt. If you please,” she repeated, 
with a majestic nod ; and Mrs. Ducklow took her hands off. 

“ Where are they now 3 where are they 1 ” cried Duck- 
low, rushing headlong to the main question. 

“ Don’t know,” said Taddy. 

“ Don’t know ? you villain ! ” And Ducklow was rising in 
wrath. But Miss Beswick put up her hand deprecatingly. 

“ If you please ! ” she said, with grim civility ; and 
Ducklow sank down again. 

“ What did you do with ’em 1 what did you want of 
’em 1 ” said Mrs. Ducklow, with difficulty restraining an 
impulse to wring his neck. 

u To cover my kite,” confessed the miserable Taddy. 

“ Cover your kite ! your kite ! ” A chorus of groans 
from the Ducklows. “ Did n’t you know no better 1 ” 

“ Did n’t think you ’d care,” said Taddy. “ I had some 


62 


COUPON BONDS. 


newspapers Dick give me to cover it ; but I thought them 
things ’u’d be pootier. So I took ’em, and put the news- 
papers in the wrapper.” 

“ Did ye cover yer kite ? ” 

“ No. When I found out you cared so much about ’em, 
I da’s’n’t ; I was afraid you ’d see ’em.” 

“ Then what did you do with ’em.” 

“When you was away, Dick come over to sleep with 
me, and I — I sold ’em to him ! ” 

“ Sold ’em to Dick ! ” 

“Yes,” spoke up Dick, stoutly, “for six marbles, and 
one was a bull’s-eye, and one agate, and two alleys. Then, 
when you come home and made such a fuss, he wanted ’em 
ag’in. But he would n’t give me back but four, and I 
wa’n’t going to agree to no such nonsense as that.” 

“ I ’d lost the bull’s-eye and one common,” whined 
Taddy. 

“ But the bonds ! did you destroy ’em 1 ” 

“ Likely I ’d do that, after I ’d paid six marbles for 
’em ! ” said Dick. “ I wanted ’em to cover my kite with.” 

“ Cover your — oh ! then you ’ve made a kite of ’em ! ” 
groaned Ducklow. 

“ Well, I was going to, when Aunt Beswick ketched me 
at it. She made me tell where I got ’em, and took me 
over to your house jest now ; and Taddy said you was over 
here, and so she put ahead, and made us foller her.” 

Again, in an agony of impatience, Ducklow demanded to 
know where the bonds were at that moment. 

“ If Taddy ’ll give me back the marbles — ” began Mas- 
ter Dick. 

“ That ’ll do ! ” said Miss Beswick, silencing him with a 
gesture. “ Reuben will give you twenty marbles ; for I 
believe you said they was Reuben’s bonds, Mr. Ducklow 1 ?” 

“Yes, that is — ” stammered the adopted father 


COUPON BONDS. 


63 


u Eventooally,” struck in the adopted mother. 

“ Now look here ! What am I to understand 1 Be they 
Reuben’s bonds, or be they not 1 That ’s the question ! ” 
And there was that in Miss Beswick’s look which said, “ If 
they are not Reuben’s, then they are nobody’s ! ” 

“ Of course they are Reuben’s ! ” “ We intended all 

the while — ” “His benefit — ” “To do jest what he 
pleases with ’em,” chorused Pa and Ma Ducklow. 

“Wal! now it’s understood! Here, Reuben, are your 
cowpon bonds ! ” 

And Miss Beswick, drawing them from her bosom, placed 
the precious documents, with formal politeness, in the glad 
soldier’s agitated hands. 

“ Glory ! ” cried Reuben, assuring himself that they were 
genuine and real. “ Sophrony, you ’ve got a home ! Ruby, 
Carrie, you ’ve got a . home ! Miss Beswick ! you angel 
from the skies ! order a bushel of marbles for Dick, and 
have the bill sent to me ! 0 Pa Ducklow ! you never did 

a nobler or more generous thing in your life. These will 
lift the mortgage, and leave me a nest-egg besides. Then 
when I get my back pay, and my pension, and my health 
again, we shall be independent.” 

And the soldier, overcome by his feelings, sank back in 
the arms of his wife. 

“We always told you we ’d do well by ye, you remem- 
ber 1 ” said the Ducklows, triumphantly. 

The news went abroad. Again congratulations poured 
in upon the returned volunteer. Everybody rejoiced in 
’his good fortune, — especially certain rich ones, who had 
been dreading to see Miss Beswick come around with her 
proposed subscription-paper. 

Among the rest, the Ducklows rejoiced not the least ; 
for selfishness was with them, as it is with many, rather a 
thing of habit than a fault of the heart. The catastrophe 


64 


COUPON BONDS. 


of the bonds broke up that life-long habit, and revealed 
good hearts underneath. The consciousness of having 
done an act of justice, although by accident, proved very 
sweet to them ; it was really a fresh sensation ; and Reu- 
ben and his dear little family, saved from ruin and dis- 
tress, happy, thankful, glad, were a sight to their old eyes 
such as they had never witnessed before. Not gold itself, 
in any quantity, at the highest premium, could have given 
them so much satisfaction ; and as for coupon bonds, they 
are not to be mentioned in the comparison. 

“ Won’t you do well by me some time, too ? ” teased 
little Taddy, who overheard his adopted parents congratu- 
lating themselves on having acted so generously by Reu- 
ben. “ I don’t care for no cowpen bonds, but I do want a 
new drum ! ” 

“ Yes, yes, my son ! ” said Ducklow, patting the boy’s 
shoulder. 

And the drum was bought. 

Taddy was delighted. But he did not know what made 
the Ducklows so much happier, so much gentler and 
kinder, than formerly. Do you 1 


MADAM WALDOBOROUGH'S CARRIAGE. 


O NE afternoon, in the month of November, 1855, 1 met 
on the Avenue des Champs Elys4es, in Paris, my 

young friend Herbert J . 

After many desolate days of wind and rain and falling 
leaves, the city had thrown off her wet rags, so to speak, 
and arrayed herself in the gorgeous apparel of one of the 
most golden .and perfect Sundays of the season. “All the 
world” was out of doors. The Boulevards, the Bois de 
Boulogne, the bridges over the Seine, all the public prome- 
nades and gardens, swarmed with joyous multitudes. The 
Champs Elysees, and the long avenue leading up to the 
Barriere de l’Etoile, appeared one mighty river, an Amazon 
of many-colored human life. The finest July weather had 
not produced such a superb display ; for now the people 
of fashion, who had passed the summer at their country- 
seats, or in Switzerland, or among the Pyrenees, reappeared 
in their showy equipages. The tide, which had been flow- 
ing to the Bois de Boulogne ever since two o’clock, had 
turned, and was pouring back into Paris. For miles, up 
and down, on either side of the city-wall, extended the 
glittering train of vehicles. The three broad, open gate- 
ways of the Barriere proved insufficient channels ; and 
far as you could see, along the Avenue de l’Imp4ratrice, 
stood three seemingly endless rows of carriages, closely 
crowded, unable to advance, waiting for the Barriere de 
l’Etoile to discharge its surplus living waters. Detach- 


66 


MADAM WALDOBOROUGH’S CARRIAGE. 


ments of the mounted city guard, and long lines of police, 
regulated the flow ; while at the Barriere an extra force of 
custom-house officers fulfilled the necessary formality of 
casting an eye of inspection into each vehicle as it passed, 
to see that nothing was smuggled. 

Just below the Barriere, as I was moving with the 
stream of pedestrians, I met Herbert. He turned and 
took my arm. As he did so, I noticed that he lifted his 
hat towards heaven, saluting with a lofty flourish one of 
the carriages that passed the gate. 

It was a dashy barouche, drawn by a glossy-black span, 
and occupied by two ladies and a lapdog. A driver on the 
box. and a footman perched behind, both in livery, — long 
coats, white gloves, and gold bands on their hats, — com- 
pleted the establishment. The ladies sat facing each other, 
and their mingled, effervescing skirts and flounces filled 
the cup of the vehicle quite to over-foaming, like a Rochelle 
powder, nearly drowning the brave spaniel, whose sturdy 
little nose was elevated, for air, just above the surge. 

Both ladies recognized my friend, and she who sat, or 
rather reclined (for such a luxurious, languishing attitude 
can. hardly be called a sitting posture), fairy -like, in 
the hinder part of the shell, bestowed upon him a very 
gracious, condescending smile. She was a most imposing 
creature, — in freshness of complexion, in physical develop- 
ment, and, above all, in amplitude and magnificence of at- 
tire, a full-blown rose of a woman, — aged, I should say, 
about forty. 

“ Don’t you know that turn-out ? ” said Herbert, as the 
shallop with its lovely freight floated on in the current. 

I was not so fortunate. 

“ Good gracious ! miserable man ! Where do you live 1 
In what obscure society have you buried yourself? Not 
to know Madam Waldoborough’s Carriag'e ! ” 


MADAM WALDOBOROUGH’S CARRIAGE. 


67 


This was spoken in a tone of humorous extravagance 
which piqued my curiosity. Behind the ostentatious defer- 
ence with which he had raised his hat to the sky, beneath 
the respectful awe with which he spoke the lady’s name, I 
detected a spirit of mischief. 

“Who is Madam Waldoborough 1 and what about her 
carriage ? ” 

“ Who is Madam Waldoborough ! ” echoed Herbert, with 
mock astonishment ; “ that a Yankee, six months in 
Paris, should ask that question ! An American woman, 
and a woman of fortune, sir ; and, which is more, of fash- 
ion ; and, which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any 
in Messina or elsewhere ; — one that occupies a position, 
go to ! and receives on Thursday evenings, go to ! and 
that hath ambassadors at her table, and everything hand- 
some about her ! And as for her carriage,” he continued, 
coming down from his Dogberrian strain of eloquence, “ it 
is the identical carriage which I did n’t ride in once ! ” 

“ How was that V 9 

“ I ’ll tell you ; for it was a curious adventure, and as it 
was a very useful lesson to me, so you may take warning 
by my experience, and, if ever she invites you to ride with 
her, as she did me, beware ! beware ! her flashing eyes, her 
floating hair ! — do not accept, or, before accepting, take 
Iago’s advice, and put money in your purse : put money 
in your purse ! I ’ll tell you why. 

“ But, in the first place, I must explain how I came to 
be without money in mine, so soon after arriving in Paris, 
where so much of the article is necessary. My woes all 
arise from vanity. That is the rock, that is the quicksand, 
that is the maelstrom. I presume you don’t know anybody 
else who is afflicted with that complaint 1 If you do, I ’ll 
but teach you how to tell my story, and that will cure 
him ; or, at least, it ought to. 


68 


MADAM WALDOBOROUGH’S CARRIAGE. 


“ You see, in crossing over to Liverpool in the steamer, 
I became acquainted with a charming young lady, who 
proved to be a second-cousin of my father’s. She belongs 
to the aristocratic branch of our family. Every family 
tree has an aristocratic branch, or bough, or little twig at 
least, I believe. She was a Todworth ; and having always 
heard my other relations mention with immense pride and 
respect the Todworths, — as if it were one of the solid sat- 
isfactions of life to be able to speak of ‘my uncle Tod- 
worth,’ or ‘ my cousins the Todworths,’ — I was prepared 
to appreciate my extreme good fortune. She was a bride, 
setting out on her wedding tour. She had married a sal- 
low, bilious, perfumed, very disagreeable fellow, — except 
that he too was an aristocrat, and a millionnaire besides, 
which made him very agreeable ; at least, T thought so. 
For that was before I rode in Madam Waldoborough’s car- 
riage. 

“ Well, the fair bride was most gratifyingly affable, and 
cousined me to my heart’s content. Her husband was no 
less friendly ; and by the time we reached London I was 
on as affectionately familiar terms with them as a younger 
brother could have been. If I had been a Todworth, they 
could n’t have made more of me. They insisted on my 
going to the same hotel with them, and taking a room ad- 
joining their suite. This was a happiness to which I had 
but one objection, — my limited pecuniary resources. My 
family are neither aristocrats nor millionnaires ; and econo- 
my required that I should place myself in humble and in- 
expensive lodgings for the two or three weeks I was to 
spend in London. But vanity ! vanity ! I was afraid of 
disgracing my branch of the family in the eyes of the Tod- 
worth branch, and of losing the fine friends I had made, by 
confessing my poverty. They went to Cox’s Hotel, in 
Jermyn Street, and I went with them. 


MADAM WALDOROROUGH’S CARRIAGE. 


69 


“ Cox’s, I fancy, is the crack hotel of London. Lady 
Byron boarded there then ; the author of ‘ Childe Harold ’ 
himself used to stop there ; Tom Moore wrote a few of 
his last songs and drank a good many of his last bottles 
of wine there ; my Lords Tom, Dick, and Harry, — the 
Duke of Dash, Sir Edward Splash, and Viscount Flash, — 
these and other notables always honor Cox’s when they go 
to town. So we honored Cox’s. And a very quiet, order- 
ly, well-kept tavern we found it. I think Mr. Cox must 
have a good housekeeper. He has been fortunate in se- 
curing a very excellent cook. I should judge that he had 
engaged some of the finest gentlemen in England to act as 
waiters. Their manners would do credit to any potentate 
in Europe : there is that calm self-possession about them, 
that serious dignity of deportment, sustained by a secure 
sense of the mighty importance of their mission to the 
world, which strikes a beholder with awe. I was made to 
feel very inferior in their presence. We dined at a private 
table, and these ministers of state waited upon us. They 
brought us the morning paper on a silver salver ; they 
presented it as if it had been a mission from a king to a 
king. Whenever we went out or came in, there stood two 
of those magnates, in white waistcoats and white gloves, 
to open the folding-doors for us, with stately mien. You 
would have said it was the Lord High Chamberlain and 
his deputy, and that I was at least Minister Plenipotentiary 
to the Court of St. James. I tried to receive these over- 
powering attentions with an air of easy indifference, like 
one who had been all his life accustomed to that sort of 
thing, you know ; but I was oppressed with a terrible sense 
of being out of my place. I could n’t help feeling that 
their serene and lofty highnesses knew perfectly well that 
I was a green Yankee boy, with less than fifty pounds in 
my pocket ; and I fancied that, behind the mask of gravity 


70 


MADAM WALDOBOROUGH’S CARRIAGE. 


each imperturbable countenance wore, there was always 
lurking a derisive smile. 

“ But this was not the worst of it. If noblemen were 
my attendants, I must expect to maintain noblemen. All 
that ceremony and deportment must go into the bill. 
With this view of the case, I could not look at their white 
kids without feeling sick at heart ; white waistcoats be- 
came a terror; the sight of an august neckcloth, bowing 
its solemn attentions to me, depressed my soul. The 
folding-doors, on golden hinges turning, — figuratively, at 
least, if not literally, like those of Milton’s heaven, — 
grated as horrible discords on my secret ear as the gates 
of Milton’s other place. It was my gold that helped to 
make those hinges. And this I endured merely for the 
sake of enjoying the society, not of my dear newly found 
cousins, but of two phantoms that hovered over their 
heads, — the phantom of wealth and the still more empty 
phantom of social position. But all this, understand, was 
before I rode in Madam Waldoborough’s carriage. 

“Well, I saw London in company with my aristocratic 
relatives, and paid a good deal more for the show, and 
really profited less by it, than if I had gone about the 
business in my own deliberate and humble way. Every- 
thing was, of course, done in the most lordly and costly 
manner known. Instead of walking to this place or that, 
or taking an omnibus or a cab, we rolled magnificently in 
our carriage. I suppose the happy bridegroom would 
willingly have defrayed all these expenses, if I had wished 
him to do so ; but pride prompted me to pay my share. 
So it happened that, during nine days in London, I spent 
as much as would have lasted me as many weeks, if I had 
been as wise as I was vain, — that is, if I had ridden in 
Madam Waldoborough’s carriage before I went to England. 

“ When I saw how things were going, bankruptcy staring 


MADAM WALDOBOROUGH’S CARRIAGE. 


71 


me in the face, ruin yawning at my feet, I was suddenly 
seized with an irresistible desire to go on to Paris. I had 
a French fever of the most violent character. I declared 
myself sick of the soot and smoke and uproar of the great 
Babel, — I even spoke slightingly of Cox’s Hotel, as if I 
had been used to better things, — and called for my bill. 
Heavens and earth, how I trembled ! Did ever a con- 
demned wretch feel as faint at the sight of the priest com- 
ing to bid him prepare for the gallows, as I did at the 
sight of one of those sublime functionaries bringing me my 
doom on a silver salver 1 Every pore opened ; a clammy 
perspiration broke out all over me ; I reached forth a 
shaking hand, and thanked his highness with a ghastly 
smile. 

“A few figures told my fate. The convict who hears 
his death-sentence may still hope for a reprieve ; but figures 
are inexorable, figures cannot lie. My bill at Cox’s was in 
pounds, shillings, and pence, amounting to just eleven dol- 
lars a day. Eleven times nine are ninety-nine. It was so 
near a round hundred, it seemed a bitter mockery not to 
say a hundred, and have done with it, instead of scrupu- 
lously stopping to consider a single paltry dollar. I was 
reminded of the boy whose father bragged of killing nine 
hundred and ninety-nine pigeons at one shot. Somebody 
asked why he did n’t say a thousand. ‘ Thunder ! ’ says 
the boy, ‘ do you suppose my father would lie just for one 
pigeon 1 ’ I told the story, to show my cousins how coolly 
I received the bill, and paid it. 

“ This drained my purse so nearly dry that I had only 
just money enough left to take me to Paris, and pay for a 
week’s lodging or so in advance. They urged me to re- 
main and go to Scotland with them ; but I tore myself 
away, and fled to France. I would not permit them to 
accompany me to the railroad station, to see me off ; for I 


72 


MADAM WALDOBOROUGH’S CARRIAGE. 


was unwilling that they should know I was going to econ- 
omize my finances by purchasing a second-class ticket. 
From the life I had been leading at Cox’s to a second-class 
passage to Paris was that step from the sublime to the 
ridiculous which I did not wish to be seen taking. I think 
I ’d have thrown myself into the Thames before I would 
thus have exposed myself ; for, as I tell you, I had not yet 
been honored with a seat in Madam Waldoborough’s car- 
riage. 

“ It is certainly a grand thing to keep grand company ; 
but if ever I felt a sense of relief, it was when I found my- 
self free from my cousins, emancipated from the fearful 
bondage of keeping up such expensive appearances, — 
seated on the hard, cushionless bench of the second-class 
car, and nibbling my crackers at my leisure, unoppressed 
by the awful presence of those grandees in white waist- 
coats. The crackers tasted sweeter than Cox’s best dinners. 
I nibbled, and contemplated my late experiences ; nibbled, 
and was almost persuaded to be a Christian, — that is, to 
forswear thenceforth and forever all company which I could 
not afford to keep, all appearances which were not honest, 
all foolish pride and silly ambition ; — as I did after I had 
ridden in a certain carriage I have mentioned, and which I 
am coming to now as fast as possible. 

“ I had lost nearly all my money and a good share of 
my self-respect by the course I had taken, and I could 
think of only one substantial advantage gained. That was 
a note of introduction from my lovely cousin to Madam 
Waldoborough. That would be of inestimable value to me 
in Paris. It would give me access to the best society, and 
secure to me, a stranger, many privileges which could not 
otherwise be obtained. ‘ Perhaps, after all,’ thought I, as 
I read over the flattering contents of the unsealed note, — 
‘ perhaps, after all, I shall find this worth quite as much 


MADAM WALDOBOROUGH’S CARRIAGE. 


73 


as it has cost me.’ 0, had I foreseen that it was actually 
destined to procure me an invitation to ride with Madam 
Waldoborough ! 

“ I reached Paris, took a cheap lodging, and waited for 
the arrival of my uncle’s goods destined for the Great Ex- 
hibition, — for to look after them (I could speak French, 
you know), and to assist in having them properly placed, 
was the main business that had brought me here. I also 
waited anxiously for my uncle and a fresh supply of funds. 
In the mean time I delivered my letters of introduction, 
and made a few acquaintances. Twice I called at Madam 
Waldoborough’s hotel, but did not see her; she was out. 
So at least the servants said, but I suspect they lied ; for, 
the second time I was told so, I noticed, 0, the most splen- 
did turn-out ! — the same you just saw pass — waiting in 
the carriage-way before her door, with the driver on the 
box, and the footman holding open the silver-handled and 
escutchioned panel that served as a door to the barouche, 
as if expecting some grand personage to get in. 

“ ‘ Some distinguished visitor, perhaps,’ thought I ; ‘or, 
it may be Madam Waldoborough herself; instead of being 
out, she is just going out, and in five minutes the servant’s 
lie will be the truth.’ Sure enough, before I left the street 
— for I may as well confess that curiosity caused me to 
linger a little — my lady herself appeared in all her glory, 
and bounced into the barouche with a vigor that made it 
rock quite unromantically ; for she is not frail, she is not 
a butterfly, she is not a wasp. I recognized her from a 
description I had received from my cousin the bride. She 
was accompanied by that meagre, smart little sprite of a 
French girl, whom Madam always takes with her, — to 
talk French with, and to be waited upon by her, she says ; 
but rather, I believe, by way of a contrast to set off her 
own brilliant complexion and imperial proportions. It is 
4 


74 


MADAM WALDOBOROUGH’S CARRIAGE. 


Juno and Arachne. The divine orbs of the goddess turned 
haughtily upon me, but did not see me, — looked through 
and beyond me, as if I had been nothing but gossamer, 
feathers, air; and the little black, bead-like eyes of the 
insect pierced me maliciously an instant, as the barouche 
dashed past, and disappeared in the Rue de Rivoli. I was 
humiliated ; I felt that I was recognized, — known as the 
rash youth who had just called at the Hotel de Waldo- 
borough, been told that Madam was out, and had stopped 
outside to catch the hotel in a lie. It is very singular — 
how do you explain it 'l — that the circumstance should 
have seemed to me something, not for Madam, but 
for me, to be ashamed of ! I don’t believe that the color 
of her peachy cheeks was heightened the shadow of a 
shade ; but as for me, I blushed to the tips of my ears. 

“You may believe that I did not go away in such a 
cheerful frame of mind as might have encouraged me to 
repeat my call in a hurry. I just coldly enclosed to her 
my cousin’s letter of introduction, along with my address, 
and said to myself, ‘ Now, she ’ll know what a deuse of a 
fellow she has slighted ; she ’ll know she has put an affront 
upon a connection of the Tod worths ! ’ Very silly, you 
see, for I had not yet — but I am coming to that part of 
my story. 

“ Well, returning to my lodgings a few days afterwards, 
I found a note which had been left for me by a liveried 
footman, — Madam Waldoborough’s footman, 0 heaven ! 
I was thrown into great trepidation by the stupendous 
event, and eagerly inquired if Madam herself was in her 
carriage, and was immensely relieved to learn she was not ; 
for, unspeakably gratifying as such condescension, such an 
Olympian compliment, would have been under other circum- 
stances, I should have felt it more than offset by the morti- 
fication of knowing that she knew, that her own eyes had 


MADAM WALDOBOROUGH’S CARRIAGE. 


75 


beheld, the very humble quarter in which a lack of means 
had compelled me to put up. 

“ I turned from that frightful possibility to the note it- 
self. It was everything I could have asked. It was am- 
brosia, it was nectar. I had done a big thing when I fired 
the Tod worth gun : it had brought the enemy to terms. 
My cousin was complimented, and I was welcomed to 
Paris, and — the Hotel Waldoborough ! 

“ ‘ Why have you not called to see me 1 ’ the note in- 
quired, with charming innocence. ‘ I shall be at home to- 
morrow morning at two o’clock ; cannot you give me the 
pleasure of greeting so near a relative of my dear, delight- 
ful Louise 1 ’ 

“ Of course I could afford her that pleasure ! 1 0, what 

a thing it is,’ I said to myself, ‘ to be a third cousin to a 
Todworth ! ’ But the two o’clock in the morning, — how 
should I manage that % I had not supposed that fashion- 
able people in Paris got up so early, much less received 
visitors at that wonderful hour. But, on reflection, I con- 
cluded that two in the morning meant two in the after- 
noon ; for I had heard that the great folks commenced 
their day at about that time. 

“ At two o’clock, accordingly, the next afternoon, — ex- 
cuse me, I mean the next morning, — I sallied forth from 
my little barren room in the Rue des Vieux Augustins, 
and proceeded to Madam’s ancient palace in the Rue St. 
Martin, dressed in my best, and palpitating with a sense 
of the honor I was doing myself. This time the concierge 
smiled encouragingly, and ascertained for me that Madam 
was at home. I ascended the polished marble staircase to 
a saloon on the first floor, where I was requested to have 
the obligeance d'attendre un petit moment , until Madam 
should be informed of my arrival. 

“ It was a very large, and, I must admit, a very respect- 


76 


MADAM WALDOBOROUGH’S CARRIAGE. 


able saloon, although not exactly what I had expected to 
see at the very summit of the social Olympus. I dropped 
into a fauteuil near a centre-table, on which there was a 
fantastical silver-wrought card-basket. What struck me 
particularly about the basket was a well-known little Tod- 
worth envelope, superscribed in the delicate handwriting 
of my aristocratic cousin, — my letter of introduction, in 
fact, — displayed upon the very top of the pile of billets 
and cards. My own card I did not see ; but in looking for 
it I discovered some curious specimens of foreign or- 
thography, — particularly one dainty little note on which 
the name was conscientiously and industriously written 
out, ‘ Oudldobeureau .’ This, as an instance of spelling an 
English word & la Franqaise , I thought a remarkable suc- 
cess, and very creditable to people who speak of Lor Be- 
rong , meaning Lord Byron, ( Be-wrong is good ! ) and talk 
glibly about Frong clang, and Vashangtong , meaning the 
great philosopher, and the Father of his Country. 

“ I was trying to amuse myself with these orthographical 
curiosities, yet waiting anxiously all the while for the ap- 
pearance of that illustrious ornament of her sex, to whom 
they were addressed ; and the servant’s 1 petit moment 9 had 
become a good quart dheure , when the drawing-room door 
opened, and in glided, not the Goddess, but the Spider. 

“ She had come to beg Monsieur (that was me) to have 
the bounty to excuse Madam (that was the Waldoborough), 
who had caused herself to be waited for, and who, I was 
assured, would give herself ‘ le plaisir de me voir dans un 
tout petit moment .’ So saying, with a smile, she seated 
herself ; and, discovering that I was an American, began 
to talk bad English to me. I may say execrable English ; 
for it is a habit your Frenchwoman often .has, to abandon 
her own facile and fluent vernacular, which she speaks so 
charmingly, in order to show off a wretched smattering she 


MADAM WALDOBOROUGH’S CARRIAGE. 


77 


may have acquired of your language, — from politeness, 
possibly, and possibly from vanity. In the mean time 
Arachne busied her long agile fingers with some very ap- 
propriate embroidery ; and busied her mind, too, I could n’t 
help thinking, weaving some intricate web of mischief, — 
for her eyes sparkled as they looked at me with a certain 
gleeful, malicious expression, — seeming to say, ‘ You have 
walked into my parlor, Mr. Fly, and I am sure to entangle 
you ! 3 which made me feel uncomfortable. 

u The ‘ tout petit moment ’ had become another good 
quarter of an hour, when the door again opened, and Mad- 
am — Madam herself — the Waldoborough — appeared ! 
Did you ever see flounces 1 did you ever witness expan- 
sion ] have your eyes ever beheld the — so to speak — 
new-risen sun trailing clouds of glory over the threshold of 
the dawnl You should have seen Madam enter that 
room ; you should have seen the effulgence of the greeting 
smile she gave me ; then you would n’t wonder that I was 
dazzled. 

“ She filled and overflowed with her magnificence the 
most royal fauteuil in the saloon, and talked to me of my 
Todworth cousin, and of my Todworth cousin’s husband, 
and of London, and of America, — occasionally turning 
aside to show off her bad French by speaking to the Spider, 
until another quarter of an hour had elapsed. Then Paris 
was mentioned, and one of us happened to speak of the 
Gobelins, — I cannot now recall which it was first uttered 
that fatal word to me, the direful spring of woes unnum- 
bered ! Had I visited the Gobelins 1 I had not, but I 
anticipated having that pleasure soon. 

“ ‘ Long as I have lived in Paris, I have never yet been 
to the Gobelins ! ’ says Madam Waldoborough. ‘ Mademoi- 
selle ’ (that was Arachne) ‘ ml accuse toujours d' avoir tort , et 
me dit que je dois y alter , n y est ce pas , Mademoiselle ? ’ 


78 


MADAM WALDOBOROUGH’S CARRIAGE. 


“ ‘ Certainement ! ’ says Mademoiselle, emphatically ; and 
in return for Madam’s ill-spoken French, she added in 
English, of even worse quality, that the Gobelins’ manu- 
facture of tapisserie and carpet, was the place the moz 
curieuze and interressante which one could go see in Paris. 

“ ‘ C’est ce qu'elle dit toujour s,’ says the Waldoborough. 
‘ But I make great allowances for her opinion, since she is 
an enthusiast with regard to everything that pertains to 
weaving.’ 

“ ‘ Very natural that she should be, being a Spider,’ I 
thought, but did not say so. 

“ ‘ However,’ Madam continued, ‘ I should like extremely 
well to go there, if I could ever get the time. Quand 
aurai-je le terns, Mademoiselle ? ’ 

“ ‘ I sink zis day is more time zan you have anozer 
day, Madame,’ says the Spider. 

“ ‘ Would you like to go 1 ’ says Madam ; and as she sug- 
gested ordering the carriage for the purpose, of course I 
jumped at the chance. To ride in that carriage ! with the 
Waldoborough herself ! with the driver before and the 
footman behind, in livery ! Oh ! 

“ I was abandoned to intoxicating dreams of ambition, 
whilst Madam went to prepare herself, and Mademoiselle 
to order the carriage. It was not long before I heard a 
vehicle enter the court-yard, turn, and stop in the car- 
riage-way. I tried to catch a glimpse of it from the win- 
dow, but saw it only in imagination, — that barouche of 
barouches, which is Waldoborough’s ! I imagined myself 
seated luxuriously in that shell, with Madam by my side, 
rolling through the streets of Paris in even greater state 
than I had rolled through London with my Todworth 
cousin. I was impatient to be experiencing the new sen- 
sation. The moments dragged : five, ten, fifteen minutes 
at least elapsed, and all the while the carriage and I were 


MADAM WALDOBOROUGH’S CARRIAGE. 


79 


waiting. Then appeared — who do you suppose 1 The 
Spider, dressed for an excursion. ‘ So she is going too ! ’ 
thought I, not very well pleased. She had in her arms — 
what do you suppose 1 A confounded little lapdog, — the 
spaniel you saw just now with his nose just above the 
crinoline. 

“ * Monsieur,’ says she, ‘ I desire make you know ze King 
Frangois.’ I hate lapdogs ; but, in order to be civil, I of- 
fered to pat his majesty on the head. That, however, did 
not seem to be court-etiquette ; and I got snapped at by 
the little despot. ‘ Our compagnon of voyage,’ says Mad- 
emoiselle, pacifying him with caresses. 

“ ‘ So he is going too 1 ’ thought I, — so unreasonable as 
to feel a little dissatisfied ; as if I had a right to say who 
should or who should not ride in Madam Waldoborough’s 
carriage. 

“ Mademoiselle sat with her hat on, and held the pup ; 
and I sat with my hat in my hand, and held my peace ; 
and she talked bad English to me, and good French to the 
dog, for, maybe, ten minutes longer, when the Waldo- 
borough swept in, arrayed for the occasion, and said, 
‘ Maintenant nous allons .’ That was the signal for descend- 
ing : as we did so, Madam casually remarked, that some- 
thing was the matter with one of the Waldoborough horses, 
but that she had not thought it worth the while to give 
up our visit to the Gobelins on that account, since a coupe 
would answer our purpose ; — and the coupes in that quar- 
ter were really very respectable ! 

" This considerate remark was as a feather-bed to break 
the frightful fall before me. You think I tumbled down 
the Waldoborough stairs'? Worse than that: I dropped 
headlong, precipitately, from the heights of fairy dreams 
to low actuality ; all the way down, down, down, from the 
Waldoborough barouche to a hired coach, a voiture de re- 
mise, that stood in its place at the door ! 


80 


MADAM WALDOBOROUGH’S CARRIAGE. 


1 “ Mademoiselle suggested that it would be quite as well 
to go in a coupe] says Madam Waldoborough, as she got 

in. 

“ ‘ 0 certainly,’ I replied, with preternatural cheerful- 
ness. 

“ It was a vehicle with two horses and seats for four ; 
one driver in a red face, — the common livery of your 
Paris hackman; but no footman, no footman, no foot- 
man ! ” Herbert repeated, with a groan. “ Not so much 
as a little tiger clinging to the straps behind ! I comforted 
myself, however, with the reflection that beggars must not 
be choosers; that, if I rode with Madam, I must accept 
her style of turn-out ; and that if I was a good boy, and 
went in the coupe this time, I might go in the barouche 
the next. 

“ Madam occupied the back seat — the seat of honor in 
a coach — with whom, do you suppose 1 Me 1 No, sir ! 
With the Spider 1 Not even with the Spider ! With the 
lapdog, sir ! And I was forced to content myself with 
a seat by Arachne’s side, facing the royal pair. 

“ ‘ Aux Gobelins ,’ says Madam Waldoborough, to the 
driver ; i mais allez par V Hotel de Ville , le pont Louis Phi- 
lippe , et VEglise de Notre Dame, — riest-ce pas ? ’ referring 
the question to me. 

“ I said, ‘ As you please.’ And the red-faced driver said, 

1 Bien, Madame ! ’ as he shut us into the coach. And off 
we went by the Hotel de Ville, the Pont Louis Philippe, 
and Notre Dame, accordingly. 

“ We stopped a few minutes to look at the Cathedral 
front ; then rattled on, up the Quai and across the Pont 
de 1’ Arche v6ch6, and through the crooked, countless streets 
until we reached the Gobelins ; and I must confess I did 
not yet experience any of the sublime emotions I had 
counted upon in riding with the distinguished Madam 
Waldoborough. 


MADAM WALDOBOROUGH’S CARRIAGE. 


81 


“ You have been to the Gobelins 1 If you have n’t, you 
must go there, — not with two ladies and a lapdog, as I 
did, but independently, and you will find the visit well 
worth the trouble. The establishment derives its name 
from an obscure wool-dyer of the fifteenth century, Jean 
Gobelin, whose little workshop has grown to be one of the 
most extensive and magnificent carpet and tapestry manu- 
factories in the world. 

“ We found liveried attendants stationed at every door 
and turning-point, to direct the crowds of visitors and to 
keep out dogs. No dog could be admitted except in arms. 
I suggested that King Francis should be left in the coach ; 
upon which Madam Waldoborough asked, reproachfully, 
' Could I be so cruel 1 ’ and the Spider looked at me as 
{f I had been an American savage. To atone for my 
inhumanity, I offered to carry the cur ; he was put into 
my arms at once ; and so it happened that I walked 
through that wonderful series of rooms, hung with tapes- 
tries of the richest description, of the times of Francis 
1., Louis XI V., and so forth, with a detested lapdog in 
my hands. However, I showed my heroism by enduring 
my fate without a murmur, and quoting Tennyson for 
the gratification of Madam Waldoborough, who was re- 
minded of the corridors of ‘ The Palace of Art.’ 

* Some were hung with arras green and blue, 

Showing a gaudy summer-morn, 

Where with puffed cheek the belted hunter blew 
His wreathed bugle-horn.’ 

And so forth, and so on. I continued my citations in 
order to keep Madam’s mouth shut ; for she annoyed me 
exceedingly by telling everybody she had occasion to 
speak with who she was. 

“ ‘ J e suis Madame Waldoborough ; et je desire savoir ’ 
this thing, or that, — whatever she wished to inquire 

4* F 


82 MADAM WALDOBOROUGH’S CARRIAGE. 

about ; as if all the world knew of her fame, and she had 
only to state, ‘ I am that distinguished personage,’ in 
order to command the utmost deference and respect. 

“ From the show-rooms we passed on to the work- 
rooms, where we found the patient weavers sitting or 
standing at the back side of their pieces, with their bas- 
kets of many-colored spools at their sides, and the paint- 
ings they were copying behind them, slowly building up 
their imitative fabrics, loop after loop, and stitch after 
stitch, by hand. Madam told the workmen who she was, 
and learned that one had been at work six months on 
his picture ; it was a female figure kneeling to a colossal 
pair of legs, destined to support a warrior, whose upper 
proportions waited to be drawn out of the spool-baskets. 
Another had been a year at work on a headless Virgin 
with a babe in her arms, finished only to the eyes. Some- 
times ten, or even twenty years, are expended by one man 
upon a single piece of tapestry ; but the patience of the 
workmen is not more wonderful than the art with which 
they select and blend their colors, passing from the softest 
to the most brilliant shades, without fault, as the work 
they are copying requires. 

“ From the tapestry-weaving we passed on to the carpet- 
weaving rooms, where the workmen have the right side 
of their fabric before them, and the designs to be copied 
over their heads. Some of the patterns were of the most 
gorgeous description, — vines, scrolls, flowers, birds, lions, 
men ; and the way they passed from the reflecting brain 
through the fingers of the weaver into the woollen texture 
was marvellous to behold. I could have spent some hours 
in the establishment pleasantly enough, watching the op- 
eratives, but for that terrible annoyance, the dog in my 
arms. I could not put him down, and I could not ask 
the ladies to take him. The Spider was in her element ; 


MADAM WALDOBOROUGH’S CARRIAGE. 


83 


she forgot everything but the toil of her fellow-spiders, 
and it was almost impossible to get her away from any 
piece she once became interested in. Madam, busy in 
telling who she was and asking questions, gave me little 
attention; so that I found myself more in the position 
of a lackey than a companion. I had regretted that her 
footman did not accompany us ; but what need was there 
of a footman as long as she had me 1 

“ In half an hour I had become weary of the lapdog and 
the Gobelins, and wished to get away. But no, — Madam 
must tell more people who she was, and make further in- 
quiries ; and as for Arachne, I believe she would have re- 
mained there until this time. Another half-hour, and an- 
other, and still the good part of another, exhausted the 
strength of my arms and the endurance of my soul, until 
at last the Waldoborough said, ‘ Eh bien , nous avons tout 
vu, n’est-ce pas ? Allons done ! ’ And we allonged. 

“We found our coupe waiting for us, and I thrust his 
majesty King Francis into it rather unceremoniously. 
Now you must know that all this time Madam Waldo- 
borough had not the remotest idea but that she was 
treating me with all due civility. She is one of your 
thoroughly egotistical, self-absorbed women, accustomed to 
receiving homage, who appear to consider that to breathe 
in their presence and attend upon them is sufficient honor 
and happiness for anybody. 

“ ‘ Never mind,’ thought I, ‘she ’ll invite me to dinner, 
and maybe I shall meet an ambassador ! ’ 

“ Arrived at the Hotel Waldoborough, accordingly, I 
stepped out of the coupe , and helped out the ladies and 
the lapdog, and was going in with them, as a matter of 
course. But the Spider said, ‘Do not give yourself ze 
pain, Monsieur!’ and relieved me of King Francis. And 
Madam said, ‘ Shall I order the driver to be paid 1 or will 


84 


MADAM WALDOBOROUGH’S CARRIAGE. 


you retain the coupe ? You will want it to take you home. 
Well, good day,’ — offering me two fingers to shake. ‘ I 
am very happy to have met you ; and I hope I shall see 
you at my next reception. Thursday evening, remember ; 
I receive Thursday evenings. Cocker , vous emporterez Mon- 
sieur chez lui, comprenez 1 1 

“ * Bien, Madame ! ’ says the cocker. 

“ ‘ Bon jour , Monsieur 1 * says Arachne, gayly, tripping 
up the stairs with the king in her arms. 

“ I was stunned. For a minute I did not know very 
well what I was about ; indeed, I should have done very 
differently if I had had my wits about me. I stepped back 
into the coupe , — weary, disheartened, hungry ; my dinner 
hour was past long ago ; it was now approaching Madam’s 
dinner hour, and I was sent away fasting. What was 
worse, the coupe was left for me to pay for. It was three 
hours since it had been ordered ; price, two francs an 
hour ; total, six francs. I had given the driver my ad- 
dress, and we were clattering away towards the Rue des 
Yieux Augustins, when I remembered, with a sinking 
of the heart I trust you may never experience, that I had 
not six francs in the world, — at least in this part of the 
world, — thanks to my Tod worth cousin ; that I had, 
in fact, only fifteen paltry sous in my pocket ! 

“ Here was a scrape ! I had ridden in Madam Waldo- 
borough’s carriage with a vengeance ! Six francs to pay ! 
and how was I ever to pay it 1 ‘ Cocker 1 cocker 1 * I 

cried out, despairingly, ‘ attendez 1 ’ 

“ The cocker stopped promptly. Struck with the ap- 
palling thought that every additional rod we travelled 
involved an increase of expense, my first impulse was to 
jump out and dismiss him. But then came the more 
frightful fancy, that it was not possible to dismiss him 
unless I could pay him ! I must keep him with me until 


MADAM WALDOBOROUGH’S CARRIAGE. 


85 


I could devise some means of raising the six francs, which 
an hour later would be eight francs, and an hour later 
ten francs, and so forth. Every moment that I delayed 
payment swelled the debt, like a ruinous rate of interest, 
and diminished the possibility of ever paying him at all. 
And of course I could not keep him with me forever, — 
go about the world henceforth in a hired coach, with a 
driver and span of horses impossible to get rid of. 

“ ‘ Que veut Monsieur V says the driver, looking over at 
me with his red face, and waiting for my orders. 

“ That recalled me from my hideous revery. I knew I 
might as well be travelling as standing still, since he was 
to be paid by the hour ; so I said, ‘ Drive on, drive 
faster ! * 

“ I had one hope, — that on reaching my lodgings I 
might prevail upon the concierge to pay for the coach. 
I stepped out with alacrity, said gayly to my coachman,* 
‘ Combien est-ce que je vous dois 1 ’ and put my hand in 
among my fifteen sous with an air of confidence. 

“The driver looked at his watch, and said, with busi- 
ness-like exactness, 1 Six francs vingt-cinq centimes , Mon- 
sieur? Vingt-dnq centimes ! My debt had increased five 
cents whilst I had been thinking about it ! ‘ Avec quelque- 

cliose pour la boisson ,’ he added with a persuasive smile. 
With a trifle besides for drink-money, — for that every 
French driver expects. 

“Then I appeared to discover, to my surprise, that I 
had not the change ; so I cried out to the old woman in 
the porter’s lodge, ‘ Give this man five francs for me, will 
youT 

“ ‘ Five francs ! ’ echoed the ogress with astonishment : 
‘ Monsieur, je rCai pas le sou ! * 

“ I might have known it ; of course she would n’t have 
a sou for a poor devil like me. 


86 


MADAM WALDOBOROUGH’S CARRIAGE. 


“ I then proposed to call at the driver’s stand and pay 
him in a day or two, if he would trust me. He smiled 
and shook his head. 

“ * Very well/ said I, stepping back into the coach, 
‘ drive to number five, Cit4 Odiot.’ I had an acquaintance 
there, of whom I thought I might possibly borrow. The 
coachman drove away cheerfully, seeming to be perfectly 
well satisfied with the state of things ; he was master of 
the situation, — he was having employment, his pay was 
going on, and he could hold me in pledge for the money. 
We reached the Cit6 Odiot : I ran in at number five, and 
up stairs to my friend’s room. It was locked; he was 
away from home. 

“ I had but one other acquaintance in Paris on whom I 
could venture to call for a loan of a few francs; and he 
lived far away, across the Seine, in the Rue Racine. There 
seemed to be no alternative ; so away we posted, carrying 
my ever-increasing debt, dragging at each remove a length- 
ening chain. We reached the Rue Racine ; I found my 
friend; I wrung his hand. ‘For Heaven’s sake/ said I, 
‘ help me to get rid of this Old Man of the Sea, — this 
elephant won in a raffle ! ’ 

“I explained. He laughed. ‘What a funny adven- 
ture ! ’ says he. ‘ And how curious that at this time, of 
all others, I have n’t ten sous in the world ! But I ’ll tell 
you what I can do/ says he. 

“‘For mercy’s sake, whatF 

“ ‘ I can get you out of the building by a private pas- 
sage, take you through into the Rue de la Harpe, and let 
you escape. Your coachman will remain waiting for you 
at the door until you have traversed half Paris. That 
will be a capital point to the joke, — a splendid finale 
for your little comedy ! ’ 

“ I confess to you that, perplexed and desperate as I 


MADAM WALDOBOROUGH'S CARRIAGE. 


87 


was, I felt for an instant tempted to accept this infamous 
suggestion. Not that I would willingly have wronged the 
coachman; but since there was no hope of doing him 
justice, why not do the best thing for myself 1 If I could 
not save my honor, I might at least save my person. 
And I own that the picture of him which presented itself 
to my mind, waiting at the door so complacently, so 
stolidly, intent only on sticking by me at the rate of two 
francs an hour until paid off, — without feeling a shadow 
of sympathy for my distress, but secretly laughing at it, 
doubtless, — that provoked me ; and I was pleased to 
think of him waiting there still, after I should have 
escaped, until at last his beaming red face would suddenly 
grow purple with wrath, and his placidity change to con- 
sternation, on discovering that he had been outwitted. 
But I knew too well what he would do. He would report 
me to the police ! Worse than that, he would report me 
to Madam Waldoborough ! 

“ Already I fancied him, with his whip under his arm, 
smilingly taking off his hat, and extending his hand to the 
amazed and indignant lady, with a polite request that she 
would pay for that coupe ! What coupe ? And he would 
tell his story, and the Goddess would be thunderstruck ; 
and the eyes of the Spider would sparkle wickedly ; and I 
should be disgraced forever ! 

“ Then I could see the Parisian detectives — the best 
in the world — going to take down from the lady’s lips a 
minute description of the adventurer, the swindler, who 
had imposed upon them', and attempted to cheat a poor 
hack-driver out of his hard-earned wages ! Then would 
appear the reports in the newspapers, — how a well-dressed 
young man, an American, Monsieur X., (or perhaps my 
name would be given,) had been the means of enlivening 
the fashionable circles of Paris with a choice bit of scandal, 


88 


MADAM WALDOBOROUGH’S CARRIAGE. 


by inviting a very distinguished lady, also an American 
(whose Thursday-evening receptions are attended by some 
of the most illustrious French and foreign residents in the 
metropolis), to accompany him on a tour of inspection to 
the Gobelins, and had afterwards been guilty of the unex- 
ampled baseness of leaving the coupe he had employed 
standing, unpaid, at the door of a certain house in the 
Rue Racine, whilst he escaped by a private passage into 
the Rue de la Harpe, and so forth. 

“ ‘ No,’ said I ; ‘’t is impossible ! If you can’t help me 
to the money, I must try — but where, how can I hope to 
raise eight francs, (for it is four hours by this time, to say 
nothing of the drink-money !) — how can I ever hope to 
raise that sum in Paris ? ’ 

“ ‘ You can pawn your watch,’ says my false friend, rub- 
bing his hands, and smiling, as if he really enjoyed the 
comicality of the thing. 

“ But I had already eaten my watch, as the French say : 
it had been a week at the Mont de PietA 

“‘Your coat then,’ says my counsellor, with good-na- 
tured unconcern. 

“‘And go in my shirt-sleeves?’ for I had placed my 
trunk and its contents in the charge of my landlord, as 
security for the payment of my rent. 

“ ‘ In that case, I don’t see what you will do, unless you 
take my original advice, and dodge the fellow.’ 

“I left my fair-weather acquaintance in disgust, and 
went off, literally staggering under the load, the ever- 
increasing load, the Pelion upon Ossa, of francs, francs, 
francs, — despair, despair, despair. 

“ ‘ Eh bien 1 ’ says the driver, interrogatively, as I went 
out to him. 

“ I ordered him to drive back to the Cit6 Odiot. 

“ ‘ Bien 1 ’ says he, polite as ever, cheery as ever ; and 


MADAM WALDOBOROUGH’S CARRIAGE. 


89 


away we went again, back across the Seine, up the Champs 
Elys4es, into the Rue de l’Oratoire, to the Cit4, — my 
stomach faint, my head aching, my thoughts whirling, and 
the carriage wheels rattling, clattering, chattering all the 
way, ‘ Two francs an hour and drink-money ! Two francs 
an hour and drink-money ! ’ 

“ Once more I tried my luck at number five, and was 
filled with exasperation and dismay to find that my friend 
had been home, and gone off again in great haste, with a 
portmanteau in his hand. 

“Where had he gone? Nobody knew: but he had 
given his key to the house-servant, saying he would be 
absent several days. 

“ ‘ Pensez-vous qiCil est alle & Londres ? ' I hurriedly in- 
quired. 

“ ‘ Monsieur , je n'en sais rien ,’ was the calm, decisive 
response. 

“I knew he often went to London ; and now my only 
hope was to catch him at one of the railway stations. 
But by which route would he be likely to go? I thought 
of only one, that by way of Calais, by which I had come, 
and I ordered my coachman to drive with all speed to the 
Northern Railway Station. He looked a little glum at 
this, and his ‘ Bien ! ’ sounded a good deal like the ‘ bang * 
of the coach-door, as he shut it rather sharply in my face. 

“Again we were off, my head hotter than ever, my feet 
like ice, and the coach-wheels saying vivaciously, as before, 
1 Two francs an hour and drink-money ! Two francs an 
hour and drink-money ! ’ I was terribly afraid we should 
be too late ; but on arriving at the station, I found there 
was no train at all. One had left in the afternoon, and 
another would leave late in the evening. Then I happened 
to think there were other routes to London, by the way 
of Dieppe and Havre. My friend might have gone by one 


90 


MADAM WALDOBOROUGH’S CARRIAGE. 


of those ! Yes, there was a train at about that time, my 
driver somewhat sullenly informed me, — for he was fast 
losing his cheerfulness : perhaps it was his supper-time, or 
perhaps he was in a hurry for his drink-money. Did he 
know where the stations were ] Know 1 of course he did ! 
There was but one terminus for both routes ; that was in 
the Hue St. Lazare. Could he reach it before the train 
started] Possibly; but his horses were jaded; they 
needed feeding. And why did n’t I tell him before that I 
wished to stop there ] for we had come through the Rue 
St. Lazare, and actually passed the railway station there, 
on our way from the Cit6 Odiot ! That was vexing to 
think of, but there was no help for it ; so back we flew on 
our course, to catch, if possible, the train, and my friend, 
who I was certain was going in it. 

“We reached the Lazarus Street Station; and I, all in 
a frenzy of apprehension, rushed in, to experience one of 
those fearful trials of temper to which nervous men — 
especially nervous Americans in Paris — are sometimes 
subject. The train was about starting; but, owing to the 
strict regulations which are everywhere enforced on French 
railways, I could not even force myself into the passenger- 
room, — much less get through the gate, and past the 
guard, to the platform where the cars were standing. 
Nobody could enter there without a ticket. My friend 
was going, and I could not rush in and catch him, and 
borrow my — ten francs, I suppose, by that time, because 
I had not a ticket, nor money to buy a ticket ! I laugh 
now at the image of myself, as I must have appeared then, 
— frantically explaining what I could of the circumstances 
to any of the officials who would hear me, — pouring forth 
torrents of broken and hardly intelligible French, now 
shrieking to make myself understood, and now groaning 
with despair, — questioning, cursing, imploring, — and re- 


MADAM WALDOBOROUGH’S CARRIAGE. 


91 


ceiving the invariable, the inexorable reply, always polite, 
but always firm, — 

“‘On ne passe pas, Monsieur/ 

“ Absolutely no admittance ! And while I was convuls- 
ing myself in vain, the train started ! It was off, — my 
friend was gone, and I was ruined forever ! 

“ When the worst has happened, and we feel that it is 
so, and our own efforts are no longer of any avail, then we 
become calm ; the heart accepts the fate it knows to be 
inevitable. The bankrupt, after all his anxious nights and 
terrible days of struggle, is almost happy at last, when all 
is over. Even the convict sleeps soundly on the night 
preceding his execution. Just so I recovered my self-pos- 
session and equanimity after the train had departed. 

“ I went back to my hackman. His serenity had van- 
ished as mine had arrived; and the fury that possessed 
me seemed to pass over and take up its abode with him. 

“ ‘ Will you pay me 1’ he demanded, fiercely. 

“ ‘ My friend,’ said I, ‘it is impossible.’ And I repeated 
my proposition to call and settle with him in a day or two. 

“ ‘ And you will not pay me now 1 ’ he vociferated. 

“ ‘ My friend, I cannot.’ 

“ ‘ Then I know what I will do ! ’ turning away with a 
gesture of rage. 

“ ‘ I have done what I could, now you shall try what 
you can,’ I answered, mildly. 

“ ‘ Ecoutez done ! ’ he hissed, turning once more upon 
me. ‘ I go to Madam. I demand my pay of her. What 
do you say to that 1 ’ 

“A few minutes before I should have been overwhelmed 
by the suggestion. I was not pleased with it now. No 
man who has enjoyed the society of ladies, and imagined 
that he appeared well in their presence, fancies the idea 
of being utterly shamed and humiliated in their eyes. I 


92 


MADAM WALDOBOROUGH’S CARRIAGE. 


ought to have had the courage to say to Madam Waldo- 
borough, when she had the coolness to send me off with 
the coupe , instead of my dinner : ‘ Excuse me, Madam, I 
have not the money to pay this man ! ’ It would have 
been bitter, that confession; but better one pill at the 
beginning of a malady than a whole boxful later. Better 
truth, anyhow, though it kill you, than a precarious exist- 
ence on false appearances. I had, by my own folly, placed 
myself in an embarrassing and ludicrous position ; and I 
must take the consequences. 

“ ‘ Very well/ said I, ‘if you are absolutely bent on hav- 
ing your money to-night, I suppose that is the best thing 
you can do. But say to Madam that I expect my uncle 
by the next steamer; that I wished you to wait till his 
arrival for your pay ; and that you not only refused, but 
put me to a great deal of trouble. It is nothing extraor- 
dinary/ I continued, ‘for gay young men, Americans, to 
be without money for a few days in Paris, expecting re- 
mittances from home ; and you fellows ought to be more 
accommodating.’ 

“ ‘ True ! true ! ’ says the driver, turning again to go. 
‘But I must have my pay all the same. I shall tell 
Madam what you say.’ 

“ He was going. And now happened one of those won- 
derful things which sometimes occur in real life, but which, 
in novels, we pronounce improbable. Whilst we were 
speaking a train arrived ; and I noticed a little withered 
old man, — a little smirking mummy of a man, — with a 
face all wrinkles and smiles, coming out of the building 
with his coat on his arm. I noticed him, because he was 
so ancient and dried up, and yet so happy, whilst I was so 
young and fresh, and yet so miserable. And I was won- 
dering at his self-satisfaction, when I saw — what think 
you ? — something fall to the ground from the waist-pocket 


MADAM WALDOBOROUGH’S CARRIAGE. 


93 


of the coat he carried on his arm ! It was — will you 
believe it h — a pocket-book ! — a fat pocket-book, a re- 
spectable, well-worn pocket-book ! — the pocket-book of a 
millionnaire, by Jove ! I pounced upon it. He was pass- 
ing on when I ran after him, politely called bis attention, 
and surprised him with a presentation of what he supposed 
was all the time conveyed safely in his coat. 

“ ‘ Is it possible ! ’ said he in very poor French, which 
betrayed him to be a foreigner like myself. ‘You are very 
kind, very obliging, very obliging indeed ! ’ 

“ If thanks and smiles would have answered my purpose, 
I had them in profusion. He looked to see that the 
pocket-book had not been opened, and thanked me again 
and again. He seemed very anxious to do the polite 
thing, yet still more anxious to be passing on. But I 
would not let him pass on; I held him with my glittering 
eye. 

“ ‘ Ah ! ’ said he, ‘ perhaps you won’t feel yourself 
injured by the offer,’ — for he saw that I was well dressed, 
and probably hesitated on that account to reward me, — 
‘ perhaps you will take something for your honesty, for 
your trouble.’ And putting his hand in his pocket, he 
took it out again, with the palm covered with glittering 
gold pieces. 

“ ‘ Sir,’ said I, ‘ I am ashamed to accept anything for so 
trifling a service ; but I owe this man here, — how much 
is it now ’ 

“ ‘ Ten francs and a half/ says the driver, whom I had 
stopped just in time. 

“ ‘ Ten francs and a half,’ I repeated. 

11 1 Metis rCoubliez pets let boisson / he added, his persuasive 
smile returning. 

“ ‘ With something for his dram/ I continued : ‘ which 
if you will have the kindness to pay him, and at the same 


94 


MADAM WALDOBOROUGH’S CARRIAGE. 


time give me your address, I will see that the money is 
returned to you without fail in a day or two.’ 

“ The smiling little man paid the money on the spot ; 
saying it was of no consequence, and neglecting to give me 
his address. And he went his way well satisfied, and the 
driver went his, also well satisfied ; and I went mine, 
infinitely better satisfied, I imagine, than either of them. 

“Well, I had got rid of Madam Waldoborough’s car- 
riage, and learned a lesson which, I think, will last me the 
rest of my life. But I must haste and tell you the curious 
denouement of the affair. 

“ I was n’t so anxious to cultivate Madam’s acquaintance 
after riding in her carriage, you may well believe. For 
months I did n’t see her. At last my Todworth cousin 
and her yellow-complexioned husband came to town, and I 
went with my uncle to call upon them at Meurice’s Hotel. 
They were delighted to see me, and fondly pressed me to 
come and take a room adjoining their suite, as I did at 
Cox’s ; whereat I smiled. 

“ A card was brought in, and my cousin directed that 
the visitor should be admitted. There was a rustle, — a 
volume of flounces came sweeping in, — a well-remembered 
voice cried, ‘ My dear Louise ! ’ — and my Todworth cousin 
was clasped in the buxom embrace of Madam Waldo- 
borough. 

“ But what did I behold 1 Following in Madam’s wake, 
like a skiff towed at the stern of a rushing side-wheel 
steamer, a dapper little old man, a withered little old man, 
a gayly smiling little old man, whose countenance was 
somehow strangely familiar to me. I considered him a 
moment, and the scene in the Rue St. Lazare, with 
the coupe driver and the man with the pocket-book, 
flashed across my mind. This was the man ! I remem- 
bered him well ; but he had evidently forgotten me. 


MADAM WALDOBOROUGH’S CARRIAGE. 


95 


“ Madam released Louise from her divine large arms, and 
greeted the yellow-complexioned one. Then she was in- 
troduced to my uncle. Then the bride said, ‘You know 
my cousin Herbert, I believe 1 ’ 

“‘Ah, yes!’ says the Waldoborough, who had glanced 
at me curiously, but doubtfully, ‘ I recognize him now ! ’ 
giving me a smile and two fingers. ‘ I thought I had seen 
him somewhere. You have been to one or two of my re- 
ceptions, have n’t you 1 ’ 

“ ‘ I have not yet had that pleasure,’ said I. 

“ ‘ Ah, I remember now ! You called one morning, 
did n’t you ? And we went somewhere together, — where 
did we go ? — or was it some other gentleman ? ’ 

“ I said I thought it must have been some other gentle- 
man ; for indeed I could hardly believe now that I was 
that fool. 

‘“Very likely,’ said she; ‘for I see so many, — my 
receptions, you know, Louise, are always so crowded ! 
But, dear me, what am I thinking of? Where are you, 
my dear ? ’ and the steamer brought the skiff alongside. 

“ ‘ Louise, and gentlemen,’ then said my lady, with a 
magnificent courtesy, the very wind of which I feared 
would blow him away, — but he advanced triumphantly, 
bowing and smiling extravagantly, — ‘ allow me the happi- 
ness of presenting to you Mr. John Waldoborough, my 
husband.’ 

“ How I refrained from shrieking and throwing myself 
on the floor, I never well knew ; for I declare to you, I 
was never so caught by surprise and tickled through and 
through by any denouement or situation, in or off the 
stage ! To think that pigmy, that wart, that little 
grimacing monkey of a man, parchment-faced, antique, — 
a mere money-bag on two sticks, — should be the husband 
of the great and glorious Madam Waldoborough ! His 


96 


MADAM WALDOBOROUGH’S CARRIAGE. 


wondrous self-satisfaction was accounted for. Moreover, I 
saw that Heaven’s justice was done; Madam’s husband 
had paid for Madam’s carriage ! ” 

Here Herbert concluded his story. And it was time ; 
for the day had closed, as we walked up and down, and 
the sudden November night had come on. Gas-light had 
replaced the light of the sun throughout the streets of the 
city. The brilliant cressets of the Place de la Concorde 
flamed like a constellation ; and the Avenue des Champs 
Elys6es, with its rows of lamps, and the throngs of car- 
riages, each bearing now its lighted lantern, moving along 
that far-extending slope, looked like a new Milky Way, 
fenced with lustrous stars, and swarming with meteoric 
fire-flies. 


FESSENDEN'S. 


i. 

THE LAST NIGHT OF AUTUMN. 

“ ~[~") LEASE, ma’am, I want to come in out of the rain,” 

-L said the dripping figure at the door. 

“And who are you, sir]” demanded the lady, aston- 
ished ; for the bell had been rung familiarly, and, thinking 
her son had come home, she had hastened to let him in, 
but had met instead (at the front door of her fine house !) 
this wretch. 

“ I ’m Fessenden’s fool, please, ma’am,” replied the son 
— not of this happy mother, thank Heaven ! not of this 
proud, elegant lady, 0 no ! — but of some no less human- 
hearted mother, I suppose, who had likewise loved her 
boy, perhaps all the more fondly for his infirmity, — who 
had hugged him to her bosom so many, many times, with 
wild and sorrowful love, — and who, be sure, would not 
have kept him standing there, ragged and shivering, in 
the rain. 

“Fessenden’s fool!” cries the lady. “What’s your 
name 1 ” 

“ Please, ma’am, that ’s my name.” Meekly spoken, 
with an earnest, staring face. “ Do you want me ] ” 

“No; we don’t want a boy with such a name as 
that ! ” 

And the lady scowls, and shakes her head, and half 
5 a 


98 


FESSENDEN’S. 


closes the forbidding door, — not thinking of that other 
mother’s heart, — never dreaming that such a gaunt and 
pallid wight ever had a mother at all. For the idea that 
those long, lean hands, reaching far out of the short and 
split coat-sleeves, had been a baby’s pure, soft hands once, 
and had pressed the white maternal breasts, and had 
played with the kisses of the fond maternal lips, — it was 
scarcely conceivable; and a delicate-minded matron, like 
Mrs. Gingerford, may well be excused for not entertaining 
any such distressing fancy. 

“Wal ! I ’ll go ! ” And the youth turned away. 

She could not shut the door. There was something in 
the unresentful, sad face, pale cheeks, and large eyes, that 
fascinated her ; something about the tattered clothes, thin, 
wet locks of flaxen hair, and ravelled straw hat-brim, 
fantastic and pitiful. And as he walked wearily away, 
and she saw the night closing in bleak and dark, and felt 
the cold dash of the rain blown against her own cheek, she 
concluded to take pity on him. For she was by no means 
a hard-hearted woman; and though her house was alto- 
gether too good for poor folks, and she really did n’t know 
what she should do with him, it seemed too bad to send 
him away shelterless, that stormy November night. Be- 
sides, her husband was a rising politician, — the public- 
spirited Judge Gingerford, you know, — the eloquent phi- 
lanthropist and reformer ; — and to have it said that his 
door had been shut against a perishing stranger might 
tarnish his reputation. So, as I remarked, she concluded 
to have compassion on the boy, and, after duly weighing the 
matter, to call him back. And she called, — though, as I 
suspect, not very loud. Moreover, the wind was whistling 
through the leafless shrubbery, and his rags were flutter- 
ing, and his hat was flapping about his ears, and the rain 
was pelting him; and just then the Judge’s respectable 


FESSENDEN’S. 


99 


dog put his head out of the' warm, dry kennel, and barked ; 
so that he did not hear, — the lady believed. 

He had heard very well, nevertheless. Why did n’t he 
go back, then 1 ? Maybe, because he was a fool. More 
likely, because he was, after all, human. Within that 
husk of rags, under all that dull incumbrance of imper- 
fect physical organs that cramped and stifled it, there 
dwelt a soul ; and the soul of man knows its own worth, 
and is proud. The coarsest, most degraded drudge still 
harbors in his wretched house of clay a divine guest. 
There is that in the convict and slave which stirs yet at 
an insult. And even in this lank, half-witted lad, the 
despised and outcast of years, there abode a sense of 
inalienable dignity, — an immanent instinct that he, too, 
was a creature of God, and worthy therefore to be treated 
with a certain tenderness and respect, and not to be 
roughly repulsed. This was strong in him as in you. 
His wisdom was little, but his will was firm. And though 
the house was cheerful and large, and had room and com- 
fort enough and to spare, rather than enter it, after he 
had been flatly told he was not wanted, he would lie down 
in the cold, wet fields and die. 

“ Certainly he will find shelter somewhere,” thought the 
Judge’s lady, discharging her conscience of the responsi- 
bility. “ But I am sorry he did n’t hear.” 

Was she very sorry 1 

She went back into her cosey, fire-lighted sewing-room, 
and thought no more of the beggar-boy. And the watch- 
dog, having barked his well-bred, formal bark, without 
undue heat, — like a dog that knew the world, and had 
acquired the tone of society, — stood a minute, important, 
contemplating the drizzle from the door of his kennel, out 
of which he had not deigned to step, then stretched him- 
self once more on his straw, gave a sigh of repose, and 


100 


FESSENDEN’S. 


curled himself up, with his nose to the air, in an attitude 
of canine enjoyment, in which it was to be hoped no 
inconsiderate vagabond would again disturb him. 

As for Fessenden’s — How shall we name him 1 Some- 
how, it goes against the grain to call any person a fool. 
Though we may forget the Scriptural warning, still charity 
remembers that he is our brother. Suppose, therefore, we 
stop at the possessive case, and call him simply Fessen- 
den’s 1 

As for Fessenden’s, then, he was less fortunate than the 
Judge’s mastiff. He had no dry straw, not even a kennel 
to crouch in. And the fields were uninviting ; and to die 
was not so pleasant. The veriest wretch alive feels a 
yearning for life, and few are so foolish as not to prefer a 
dry skin to a wet one. Even Fessenden’s knew enough to 
go in when it rained, — if he only could. So, with the 
dismallest prospect before him, he kept on, in the wind 
and rain of that bitter November night. 

And now the wind was rising to a tempest ; and the rain 
was turning to sleet; and November was fast becoming 
December. For this was the last day of the month, — 
the close of the last day of autumn, as we divide the sea- 
sons : autumn was flying in battle before the fierce onset of 
winter. It w£,s the close of the week also, being Saturday. 

Saturday night ! what a sentiment of thankfulness and 
repose is in the word ! Comfort is in it ; and peace 
exhales from it like an aroma. Your work is ended ; it is 
the hour of rest ; the sense of duty done sweetens reflec- 
tion, and weariness subsides into soothing content. Once 
more the heart grows tenderly appreciative of the com- 
monest blessings. That you have a roof to shelter you, 
and a pillow for your head, and love and light and supper, 
and something in store for Sunday, — that the raving 
rain is excluded, and the wolfish wind howls in vain, — 


FESSENDEN’S. 


101 


that those dearest to you are gathered about your hearth, 
and all is well, — it is enough ; the full soul asks no more. 

But this particular Saturday evening brought no such 
suffusion of bliss to Fessenden’s, — if, indeed, any ever 
did. He saw, through the streaming, misty air, the happy 
homes in the village lighted up one by one as it grew 
dark. He had glimpses, through warm windows, of white 
supper-tables. The storm made sufficient seclusion ; there 
was no need to draw the curtains. Servants were bring- 
ing in the tea-things. Children were playing about the 
floors, — laughing, beautiful children. Behold them, shiv- 
ering beggar-boy ! Lean by the iron rail, wait patiently 
in the rain, and look in upon them ; it is worth your while. 
How frolicsome and light-hearted they seem ! They are 
never cold, and seldom very hungry, and the world is dry 
to them, and comfortable. And they all have beds, — 
delicious beds. Mothers’ hands tuck them in; mothers’ 
lips teach them to say their little prayers, and kiss them 
good night. Foolish fellow ! why did n’t you be one of 
those fortunate children, well fed, rosy, and bright, instead 
of a starved and stupid tatterdemalion 1 A question 
which shapes itself vaguely in his dull, aching soul, as he 
stands trembling in the sleet, with only a few transparent 
squares of glass dividing him and his misery from them 
and their joy. 

Mighty question ! it is vast and dark as the night to 
him. He cannot answer it ; can you ? 

Vast and dark and pitiless is the night. But the morn- 
ing will surely come ; and after all the wrongs and tumults 
of life will rise the dawn of the Day of God. And then 
every question of fate, though it fill the universe for you 
now, shall dissolve in the brightness like a vapor, and 
vanish like a little cloud. 

Meanwhile a servant comes out and drives Fessenden’s 


102 


FESSENDEN’S. 


away from the fence. He recommenced his wanderings, 
— up one street and down another, in search of a place to 
lay his head. The inferior dwellings he passed by. But 
when he arrived at a particularly fine one, there he rang. 
Was it not natural for him to infer that the largest houses 
had amplest accommodations, and that the rich could best 
afforcf to be bounteous 1 If in all these spacious mansions 
there was no little nook for him, if out of their luxuries 
not a blanket or crust could be spared, what could he hope 
from the poor 1 You see, he was not altogether witless, if 
he was a — Fessenden’s. Another proof: At whatever 
house he applied, he never committed the vulgarity of a 
detour to the back entrance, but advanced straight, with 
bold and confident port, to the front door. The reason of 
which was equally simple and clear : front doors were the 
most convenient and inviting ; and what were they made 
for, if not to go in at 1 

But he grew weary of ringing and of being repulsed. It 
was dismal standing still, however, and quite as comfortless 
sitting down. He was so cold ! So, to keep his blood in 
motion, he keeps his limbs in motion, — till, lo ! here he 
is again at the house where the happy children were ! 
They have ceased their play. Two young girls are at the 
window, gazing out into the darkness, as if expecting 
some one. Not you, miserable! You needn’t stop and 
make signs for them to admit you. There ! don’t you see 
you have frightened them! You are not a fitting spec- 
tacle for such sweet-eyed darlings. They do well to drop 
the shade, to shut out the darkness, and the dim, gesticu- 
lating phantom. Flit on ! ’T is their father they are 
looking for, coming home to them with gifts from the city. 

But he does not flit. When, presently, they lift a corner 
of the shade and peep out, they see him still standing 
there, spectral in the gloom. He is waiting for them to 


FESSENDEN’S. 


103 


open the door ! He thinks they have quitted the window 
for that purpose ! Ah ! here comes the father, and they 
are glad. 

He comes hurrying from the cars under his umbrella, 
which is braced against the gale and shuts out from his 
eyes the sight of the unsheltered wretch. And he is 
hastily entering his door, which is opened to him by the 
eager children, when they scream alarm ; and looking over 
his shoulder, he perceives, following at his heels, the fright. 
He is one of your full-blooded, solid men; but he is 
startled. 

“What do you want 1 ?” he cries, and lifts the threaten- 
ing umbrella. 

“ I ’m hungry,” says the intruder, with a ghastly glare, 
still advancing. 

He stands taller in his tattered shoes than the solid 
gentleman in his boots; and those long, lean, claw-like 
hands act as if anxious to clutch something. Papa thinks 
it is his throat. 

“ By heavens ! do you mean to — ” And he prepares to 
charge umbrella. 

“You may !” answers the wretch, with perfect sincerity, 
presenting his ragged bosom to the blow. 

The lord of the castle lowers his weapon. The children 
huddle behind him, hushing their screams. 

“ Go in, Minnie ! In, all of you ! Tell Stephen to come 
here, — quick ! ” 

The children scamper. And the florid, prosperous 
parent and the gaunt and famishing vagrant are alone, 
confronting each other by the light of the shining hall- 
lamp. 

“I’m cold,” says the latter, — “and wet,” with an 
aguish shiver. 

“ I should think so ! ” cries the gentleman, recovering 


104 


FESSENDEN’S. 


from his alarm, and getting his breath again, as he hears 
Stephen’s step behind him. “Stand back, can’t you?” 
(indignantly.) “Don’t you see you are dripping on the 
carpet 1 ” 

“I’m so tired ! ” 

“ Well ! you need n’t rub yourself against the door, if 
you are ! Don’t you see you are smearing it 1 What are 
you roaming about in this way for, intruding into people’s 
houses 1 ” 

“ Please, sir, I don’t know,” is the soft, sad answer ; and 
Fessenden’s is meekly taking hifiiself away. 

“ It ’s too bad, though ! ” says the man, relenting. 
“ What can we do with this fellow, Stephen 1 ” 

“Send him around to Judge Gingerford’s, — I should 
say that ’s about the best thing to do with him,” says the 
witty Stephen. 

The man knew well what would please. His master’s 
face lighted up. He rubbed his hands, and regarded the 
vagabond with a humorous twinkle, with malice in it. 

“ Would you, Stephen 1 By George, I ’ve a good notion 
to ! Take the umbrella, and go and show him the way.” 

Stephen did not like that. 

“ I was only joking, sir,” he said. 

“ A good joke, too ! Here, you fellow ! go with my 
man. He ’ll take you to a house where you ’ll find friends. 
Excellent folks ! damned philanthropical ! red-hot aboli- 
tionists ! If you only had nigger blood, now, they ’d treat 
you like a prince. I don’t know but I ’d advise you to 
tell ’em you ’re about a quarter nigger, — they ’ll think 
ten times as much of you ! ” 

It was sufficiently evident that the gentleman did not 
love his neighbor the Judge. With his own hands he 
spread again the soaked umbrella, and, giving it to the 
reluctant Stephen, sent him away with the vagabond. 


FESSENDEN’S. 


105 


Then he shut the door, and went in. By the fire he pulled 
oft his wet boots, and put on the warm slippers, which the 
children brought him with innocent strife to see which 
should be foremost. And he gave to each kisses and toys ; 
for he was a kind father. And sitting down to supper, 
with their beaming faces around him, he thought of the 
beggar-boy only in connection with the jocular spite he 
had indulged against his neighbor. 

Meanwhile the disgusted Stephen, walking alone under 
the umbrella, drove Fessenden’s before him through the 
storm. They turned a corner. Stephen stopped. 

“ There, that ’s the house, where the lights are. Good 
by ! Luck to you ! ” And Stephen and umbrella disap- 
peared in the darkness. 

Fessenden’s kept on, wearily, wearily! He reached the 
house. And lo ! it was the same at the door of which 
the lady had told him that he, with his name, was not 
wanted. Tiger slept in his kennel, and dreamed of bark- 
ing at beggars. The Judge, snugly ensconced in his study, 
listened to the report of his speech before the Timberville 
Benevolent Association. His son read it aloud, in the 
columns of the “ Timberville Gazette.” Gingerford smiled 
and nodded; for it sounded well. And Mrs. Gingerford 
was pleased and proud. And the heart of Gingerford 
Junior swelled with the fervor of the eloquence, and with 
exultation in his father’s talents and distinction, as he 
read. The sleet rattled a pleasant accompaniment against 
the window-shutters; and the organ-pipes of the wind 
sounded a solemn symphony. This last night of Novem- 
ber was genial and bright to these worthy people, in their 
little family circle. And the future was full of promise. 
And the rhetoric of the orator settled the duty of man to 
man so satisfactorily, and painted the pleasures of benev- 
olence in such colors, that all their bosoms glowed. 

5 * 


106 


FESSENDEN’S. 


“ It is gratifying to think,” said Mrs. Gingerford, wiping 
her eyes at the pathetic close, “ how much good the print- 
ing of that address in the ‘ Gazette ’ must accomplish. It 
will reach many so, who had n’t the good fortune to hear it 
at the rooms.” 

Certainly, madam. The “Gazette” is taken, and per- 
haps read this very evening, in every one of the houses at 
which the homeless one has applied in vain for shelter, 
since you frowned him from your door. Those exalted 
sentiments, breathed in musical periods, are no doubt a 
rich legacy to the society of Timberville, and to the world. 
It was wise to print them ; they will “ reach many so.” 
But will they reach this outcast beggar-boy, and benefit 
him 'i Alas, it is fast growing too late for that ! 

Utter fatigue and discouragement have overtaken him. 
The former notion of dying in the fields recurs to him 
now; and wretched indeed must he be, since even that 
desperate thought has a sort of comfort in it. But he is 
too weary to seek out some suitably retired spot to take 
cold leave of life in. On every side is darkness ; on every 
side, wild storm. Why endeavor to drag farther his be- 
numbed limbs'? As well stretch himself here, upon this 
wet wintry sod, as anywhere. He has the presumption to 
do it, — never considering how deeply he may injure a fine 
gentleman's feelings by dying at his door. 

Tiger does not bark him away, but only dreams of bark- 
ing, in his cosey kennel. Close by are the windows of the 
mansion, glowing with light. There beat the philanthropic 
hearts ; there smiles the pale, pensive lady ; there beams 
the aspiring face of her son ; and there sits the Judge, 
with his feet on the rug, pleasantly contemplating the 
good his speech will do, and thinking quite as much, 
perhaps, of the fame it will bring him, — happily uncon- 
scious alike of his neighbor’s malicious jest, and of the 


FESSENDEN’S. 


107 


real victim of that jest, lying out there in the tempest and 
freezing rain. 

So November goes out; and winter, boisterous and tri- 
- umphant, comes in. 


II. 


Fessenden’s gets a ride. 

Sunday morning : cold and clear. The December sun 
shines upon the glassy turf, and upon trees all clad in 
armor of glittering ice. And the trees creak and rattle in 
the north wind ; and the icy splinters fall tinkling to the 
ground. 

The splendor of the morning gilds the Judge’s estate. 
Everything about the mansion smiles and sparkles. Were 
last night’s horrors a dream ] 

There was danger, we remember, that the foolish youth 
might do a very inconsiderate and shocking thing, and 
perhaps ruin the Judge. What if he had really deposited 
his mortal remains at the gate of that worthy man, — to 
be found there, ghastly and stiff, a revolting spectacle, this 
bright morning] What a commentary on Gingerford phi- 
lanthropy ! For of course some one would at once have 
stepped forward to testify to having seen him driven from 
the door, which he came back to lay his bones near. And 
Stephen would have been on hand to remember directing 
such a person, inquiring his way a second time to the 
Judge’s house. And here he is dead, — to the secret 
delight of the Judge’s enemies, and to the indignation of 
all Timberville. At anybody else’s door it would n’t have 
seemed so bad. But at Gingerford’s ! a philanthropist by 
profession ! author of that beautiful speech you cried over ! 


108 


FESSENDEN’S. 


You will never forgive him those tears. The greatest 
crime a man can be guilty of in the eyes of his constituents 
is to have been over-praised by them. Woe to him, when 
they find out their error ! and woe now to the Judge ! 
The fact that a dozen other influential citizens had also 
refused shelter to the vagabond will not help the matter. 
Those very men will probably be the first to cry, “ Hypo- 
crite ! inhuman! a judgment upon him!” ■ — for it is 
always the person of doubtful virtue who is most eager to 
assume the appearance of severe integrity ; and we often 
flatter ourselves that our private faults are atoned for, 
when we have loudly denounced the same in others. 

Fortunately, the flower of the Judge’s reputation is 
saved from so terrible a blight. There is no corpse at his 
gate ; and our speculations are idle. 

This is what had occurred. 

Not long after the lad had lain down, a dream-like spell 
came over him. His pain was gone. He forgot that he 
was cold. He was not hungry any more. A sweet sense 
of rest was diffused through his tired limbs. And smiling 
and soothed he lay, while the storm beat upon him. Was 
this death 1 ? For we know that in this merciful shape 
death sometimes comes to the sufferer. 

Fessenden’s afterwards said that he had “one of his 
fits.” He was subject to such. When men reviled and 
denied him, then came the angels, — or he imagined they 
came. They walked by his side, and talked with him , 
and often, all a summer’s afternoon, he could be heard 
conversing in the fields, as with familiar friends, when 
only himself was visible, and his voice alone was heard in 
the silence. This was, in fact, one of those idiosyncrasies 
which had earned him his shameful name. 

In the trance of that night, lying cold upon the ground, 
he beheld his ghostly visitors. They came and stood 


FESSENDEN’S. 


109 


around him, a shining company, and looked upon him with 
countenances of fair women and good men. Their apparel 
was not unlike that of mortals. And he heard them 
questioning among themselves how they should help him. 
And one of them, as it seemed, brought human assistance ; 
though the boy, who could see plenty of ghosts, could not, 
for some reason, see the only actually visible and substan- 
tial person then on the spot besides himself. He felt, 
however, sensibly enough, the concussion of a stout pair 
of mortal legs that presently went stumbling over him in 
the dark. The shock roused him. The whole shadowy 
company vanished ; and in their place he saw, by the 
glimmer from the Judge’s windows, a dark sprawling fig- 
ure getting up out of the mud and water. 

“Don’t be scaret, it’s me,” said Fessenden’s; for he 
guessed the fellow was frightened. 

“Excuse me, sir! I really didn’t know it was you, 
sir ! ” said the man, with agitated politeness. “ And who 
might you be, sir? if I may be so bold as to inquire.” 
And regaining his balance, his umbrella, and his self-pos- 
session, he drew near and squatted cautiously before the 
prostrate beggar, who, had his eyesight been half as keen 
for the living as it was for the dead, would have discovered 
that the face bending over him was black. 

“ Never mind me,” said Fessenden’s. “ Did it hurt 

yef ” 

“ Well, sir, — no, sir, — only my knee went pretty seri- 
ously into something wet. And I believe I ’ve turned my 
umbrella wrong side out. I say, sir, what was you doing, 
lying here, sir? You don’t think of remaining here all 
night, I trust, sir ? ” 

“ I ’ve nowhere else to go,” said the boy, trying to rise. 

The black man helped him up. 

“ But this never ’ll do, you know ! such an inclement 


110 


FESSENDEN’S. 


night as this is ! — you ’d die before morning, sure ! Just 
wait till I can get my umbrella into shape, — my gra- 
cious ! how the wind pulls it ! Now, then, suppose you 
come along with me.” 

“ Please, sir, I can’t walk ” ; for the lad’s limbs had 
stiffened, in spite of his angels. 

“ Is that so, sir 1 Let me see ; about how much do you 
weigh, sir? Not much above a hundred, do you? It 
is n’t impossible but I may take you on my back. Sup- 
pose you try it.” 

“ 0, I can’t ! ” groaned the boy. 

“ Excuse me for contradicting you, but I think you can, 
sir. I should n’t like to do it myself, in the daytime ; but 
in the night so, who cares? Nobody’ll laugh at us, even 
if we don’t succeed. Really, I wish you was n’t quite so 
wet, sir ; for these here is my Sunday clothes. But 
never mind a little water ; we ’ll find a fire to get dry 
again. There you are, my friend ! A little higher. Put 
your hands over across my breast. Could n’t manage to 
hold the umbrella over us, could you ? So fashion. 
Now steady, while I rise with you.” 

And the stalwart young negro, hooking his arms well 
under the legs of his rider, got up stoopingly, gave a toss 
and a jolt to get him into the right position, and walked 
off with him. Away they go, tramp, tramp, in the storm 
and darkness. Thank Heaven, the Judge’s fame is safe ! 
If the pauper dies, it will not be at his door. Little he 
knows, there in his elegant study, what an inestimable 
service this black Samaritan is rendering him. And it 
was just ; for, after all the Judge had done for the negro 
(who, I suppose, was equally unconscious of any substan- 
tial benefit received), it was time that the negro should 
do something for him in return. 

Tramp ! tramp ! a famous beggar’s ride ! It was a 


FESSENDEN’S. 


Ill 


picturesque scene, with food for laughter and tears in it, 
had we only been there with a lantern. Fessenden’s fan- 
tastic astride of the African, staring forward into the 
darkness from under his ragged hat-brim, endeavoring to 
hold the wreck of an umbrella over them, — the wind 
flapping and whirling it. Tramp ! tramp ! past all those 
noble mansions, to the negro hut beyond the village. 
And, 0, to think of it ! the rich citizens, the enlightened 
and white-skinned Levites, having left him out, one of 
their own race, to perish in the storm, this despised black 
man is found, alone of all the world, to show mercy unto 
him ! 

“ How do you get on, sir 1 ” says the stout young 
Ethiop. “ Would you ride easier, if I should trot? or 
would you prefer a canter ? Tell ’em to bring on their 
two-forty nags now, if they want a race.” 

Talking in this strain to keep up his rider’s spirits, he 
brought him, not without sweat and toil, to the hut. A 
kick on the door with the beggar’s foot, which he used for 
the purpose, caused it to be opened by a woolly-headed 
urchin ; and in he staggered. 

Little woolly-head clapped his hands and screamed. 

“ 0 crackie, pappy ! here comes Bill with the Devil on 
his back ! ” 

Sensation in the hut. There was an old negro woman 
in the corner, at one side of the stove, knitting; and a 
very old negro man in the opposite corner, napping ; and 
a middle-aged man with spectacles on his ebony nose, 
reading slowly aloud from an ancient greasy-covered book 
opened before him on the old pine table ; and a middle- 
aged woman patching a jacket ; and a girl washing dishes 
which another girl was wiping ; representatives of four 
generations : and they all quitted their occupations at 
once, to see what sort of a devil Bill had brought home. 


112 


FESSENDEN’S. 


“Why, William! who have you got there, William 
said he of the spectacles, with mild wonder, removing 
those clerkly aids of vision and laying them across the 
book. 

“ A chair ! ” panted Bill. “ Now ease him down, if you 
please, — careful, — and I ’ll — recite the circumstances,” 
5 — puffing, but polite to the last. 


III. 

MAKES ACQUAINTANCE WITH THE WILLIAMS FAMILY. 

Helpless and gasping, Fessenden’s was unfastened, and 
slipped down the African’s back upon a seat placed t’o 
receive him. He still clung to the umbrella, which he 
endeavored to keep spread over him, while he stared 
around w T ith stupid amazement at the dim room and the 
array of black faces. 

And now the excited urchin began to caper and sing : — 

“ ‘ Went down to river, could n’t get across ; 

Jumped upon a nigger’s back, thought it was a hoss ! ’ 

0, crackie, Bill ! ” 

“ Father,” said William, with wounded dignity, — for 
he was something of a gentleman in his way, — “ I wish 
you ’d discipline that child, or else give me permission to 
chuck him.” 

“Joseph!” said the father, with a stem shake of his 
big black head at the boy, “ here ’s a stranger in the 
house ! Walk straight, Joseph ! ” 

Which solemn injunction Joseph obeyed in a highly 
offensive manner, by strutting off in imitation of William’s 
dandified air. 


FESSENDEN’S. 


113 


By this time the aged negro in the corner had become 
fully roused to the consciousness of a guest in the house. 
He came forward with slow, shuffling step. He was 
almost blind. He was exceedingly deaf. He was with- 
ered and wrinkled in the last degree. His countenance 
was of the color of rust-eaten bronze. He was more than 
a hundred years old, — the father of the old woman, the 
grandfather of the middle-aged man, and the great-grand- 
father of William, Joseph, and the girls. He was muffled 
in rags, and wore a little cap on his head. This he 
removed with his left hand, exposing a little battered 
tea-kettle of a bald pate, as with smiling politeness he 
reached out the other trembling hand to shake that of the 
stranger. 

“ Welcome, sah ! Sarvant, sah ! ” 

He bowed and smiled again, and the hospitable duty 
was performed ; after which he put on his cap and shuffled 
back into his corner, greatly marvelled at by the gazing 
beggar- boy. 

The girls and their mother now bestirred themselves to 
get their guest something to eat. The tin teapot was 
set on the stove, and hash was warmed up in the spider. 
In the mean time William somewhat ruefully took off his 
wet Sunday coat, and hung it to dry by the stove, inter- 
polating affectionate regrets for the soiled garment with 
the narration of his adventure. 

“ It was the merest chance my coming that way,” he 
explained ; “ for I had got started up the other street, 
when something says to me, 1 Go by Gingerford’s ! go by 
Judge Gingerford’s !’ so I altered my course, and the 
result was, just as I got against the Judge’s gate I was 
precipitated over this here person.” 

“ I know what made ye ! ” spoke up the boy, with an 
earnest stare. 

n 


114 


FESSENDEN’S. 


“ What, sir, if you please 1 ” 

“ The angels ! ” 

“ The — the what, sir ? ” 

“ The angels ! I seen ’em ! ” says Fessenden’s. 

This astounding announcement was followed by a 
strange hush. Bill forgot to smooth out the creases of 
his coat, and looked suspiciously at the youth whom it 
had served as a saddle. He wondered if he had really 
been ridden by the Devil. 

The old woman now interfered. She was at least sev- 
enty years of age. The hair of her head was like mixed 
carded wool. Her coarse, cleanly gown was composed of 
many-colored, curious patches. The atmosphere of thor- 
ough grandmotherly goodness surrounded her. In the 
twilight sky of her dusky face twinkled shrewdness and 
good-humor ; and her voice was full of authority and 
kindness. 

“ Stan’ back here now, you troubles ! ” pushing the chil- 
dren aside. “ Did n’t none on ye never see nobody afore 1 
This ’ere child ’s got to be took keer on, and that mighty 
soon ! Gi’ me the comf ’table off ’m the bed, mammy.” 

“ Mammy ” was the mother of the children. The 
“ comf ’table ” was brought, and she and her husband 
helped the old negress wrap Fessenden’s up in it, from 
head to foot, wet clothes and all. 

“Now your big warm gret-cut, pappy!” 

“ Pappy ” was her own son ; and the “ gret-cut ” was 
his old, gray, patched and double-patched surtout, which 
now came down from its peg, and spread its broad flaps, 
like brooding wings, over the half - drowned human 
chicken. 

“Now put in the wood, boys ! Pour some of that ’ere 
hot tea down his throat. Bless him, we ’ll sweat the cold 
out of him ! we ’ll give him a steaming ! ” 


FESSENDEN’S. 


115 


She held with her own hand the cracked teacup to the 
lad’s lips, and made him drink. Then she pulled up the 
comforter about his face, till nothing of him was visible 
but his nose and a curl or two of saturated tow. Then she 
had him moved up close to the glowing stove, like a huge 
chrysalis to be hatched by the heat. 

The dozing centenarian now roused himself again, and, 
perceiving the little nose in the big bundle on the other 
side of the chimney, was once more reminded of the 
sacred duties of hospitality. So he got upon his trem- 
bling old legs, pulled off his cap, and bowed and smiled as 
before, with exquisite politeness, across the stove. “ Sar- 
vant, sah ! Welcome, sah ! ” And he sat down and dozed 
again. 

Fessenden’s was not in a position to return the cour- 
teous salute. The old woman had by this time got his 
feet packed into the stove-oven, and he was beginning to 
smoke. 

“ 0 Bill ! just look a’ Joe ! ” cried one of the girls. 

Bill left smoothing his broadcloth, and, turning up the 
whites of his eyes, uttered a despairing groan. “ 0, that 
child ! that child ! that child ! ” — his voice running up 
into a wild falsetto howl. 

The child thus passionately alluded to had possessed 
himself of Bill’s genteel silk hat, which had been tenderly 
put away to dry. It had been sadly soaked by the rain, 
and bruised by the flopping umbrella which Fessenden’s 
had unhappily attempted to hold over it. And now Joe 
had knocked in the crown, whilst getting it down from its 
peg with the broom. He had thought to improve its 
appearance by stroking the nap the wrong way with his 
sleeve. Lastly, putting it on his head, he had crushed 
the sides together to prevent its coming quite down over 
Jiis eyes and ears and resting on his shoulders. And there 


116 


FESSENDEN’S. 


he was, with the broken umbrella spread, hitting the top 
of the hat with it at every step, as he strutted around the 
room in emulation of his brother’s elegant style. 

“ My name ’s Mr. Bill Williams, Asquare ! ” simpered the 
little satirist. “ Some folks call me Gentleman Bill, ’cause 
I ’m so smart and good-looking, sar ! ” 

Gentleman Bill picked up the jack with which he had 
pulled off his wet boots, and waited for a good chance to 
launch it at Joe’s head. But Joe kept behind his grand- 
mother, and proceeded with his mimicry. 

“ Nobody knows I ’m smart and good-looking ’cept me, 
and that ’s why I tell on ’t, sar ; that ’s the reason I 
excite the stircumstances, sar ! ” He remembered Bill’s 
saying he would “ recite the circumstances,” ,and this was 
as near as he could come to the precise words. “ I ’m a 
gentleman tailor ; that ’s my perfession, sar. Work over 
to the North Village, sar. Come home Sat’day nights to 
stop over Sunday with the folks, and show my good 
clo’es. How d’ ’e do, sar 1 Perty well, thank ye, sar.” 
And Joe, putting down the umbrella, in order to lift the 
ingulfing hat from his little round, black, curly head with 
both hands, made a most extravagant bow to the chrysalis. 

“ Old granny ! ” hoarsely whispered Bill, “ you just 
stand out of the way once, while I propel this boot- 
jack!” 

Old granny don’t stan’ out o’ the way oncet, for you 
to frow no boot-jack in this house ! S’pose I want to see 
that child’s head stove in'? Which is mos’ consequence, 
I ’d like to know, your hat, or his head *? Hats enough in 
the world. But that ’ere head is an oncommon head, and 
bless the boy, if he should lose that, I do’no’ where he ’d 
git another like it ! Come, no more fuss now ! I got to 
make some gruel for this ’ere poor, wet, starvin’ critter. 
That hash a’n’t the thing for him, mammy, — you ’d 


FESSENDEN’S. 


117 


ought to know ! He wants somefin’ light and comfortin’, 
that ’ll warm his in’ards, and make him sweat, bless him ! 
— Joey ! Joey ! give up that ’ere hat now ! ” 

“ Take it then ! Mean old thing, — I don’t want it ! ” 
Joe extended it on the point of the umbrella ; but just 
as Bill was reaching to receive it, he gave it a little toss, 
which sent it into the chip-basket. 

“ Might know I ’d had on your hat ! ” and the little 
rogue scratched his head furiously. 

“ I shall certainly massacre that child some fine morn- 
ing ! ” muttered Bill, ruefully extricating the insulted arti- 
cle from the basket. “ 0 my gracious ! only look at that, 
now, Creshy ! ” to his sister. “ That ’s an interesting ob- 
ject, is n’t itl for a gentleman to think of putting on to 
his head Sunday morning ! ” 

“ 0 Bill ! ” cried Creshy, “just look a’ Joe ag’in ! ” 
Whilst he was sorrowfully restoring his hat to its pris- 
tine shape, he had been robbed of his coat. The thief had 
run with it behind the bed, where he had succeeded in 
getting into it. The collar enveloped his ears. The 
skirts dragged upon the floor. He had buttoned it, to 
make it fit better ; but there was still room in it for two 
or three boys. He had got on his father’s spectacles and 
the beggar’s straw hat. He looked like a frightful little old 
misshapen dwarf. And now rolling up the sleeves to 
find his hands, and wrinkling the coat outrageously at 
every movement, he advanced from his retreat, and began 
to dance a pigeon-wing, amid the convulsive laughter of 
the girls. 

“ 0 my soul ! my soul ! ” cried Bill, his voice inclining 
again to the falsetto. “ Was there ever such an imp of 
Satin 'i Was there ever — ” 

Here he made a lunge at the offender. Joe attempted 
to escape, but getting his feet entangled in the superabun- 


118 


FESSENDEN’S. 


dant coat-skirts, fell, screaming as if he were about to be 
killed. 

“ Good enough for you ! ” said his mother. “ I wish 
you would get hurt ! ” 

“ What you wish that for 1 ” cried the old grandmother, 
rushing to the rescue, brandishing a long iron spoon with 
which she had been stirring the gruel. “Can’t nobody 
never have no fun in this house 1 Bless us ! what ’ud we 
do, if ’t wa’n’t for Joey, to make us laugh and keep our 
sperits up 1 J est you stan’ back now, Bill ! — ’d ruther 
you ’d strike me ’n see ye hit that ’ere boy oncet ! ” 

“He must let my things be, then,” said Bill, who 
could n’t see much sport in the disrespectful use made of 
his wearing apparel. — “ Here, you ! surrender my prop- 
erty ! ” 

“ Laws ! you be quiet ! You ’ll git yer cut ag’in. Only 
jest look at him now, he ’s so blessed cunning ! ” 

For Joe, reassured by his grandmother, had stopped 
screaming, and gone to tailoring. He sat cross-legged on 
one of the unlucky coat-skirts, and pulled the other up on 
his lap for his work. Then he got an imaginary thread, 
and, patting his fingers together, screwed up his mouth, 
and looked over the spectacles, sharpening his sight, — 

“ Like an old tailor to his needle’s eye.” 

Then he began to stitch, to the infinite disgust of Bill, 
who was sensitive touching his vocation. 

“ I do declare, father ! how you can smile, seeing that 
child carrying on in this shape, is beyond my comprehen- 
sion 1 ” 

“ Joseph ! ” said Mr. Williams, good-naturedly, “ I 
guess that ’ll do for . to-night. Come, I want my specta- 
cles.” 

He had sat down to his book again. He was a slow, 
thoughtful, easy, cheerful man, whom suffering and much 


FESSENDEN’S. 


119 


humiliation had rendered very mild and patient, if not 
quite broken-spirited. His voice was indulgent and gen- 
tle, with that mellow richness of tone peculiar to the 
negro. After he had spoken, the laughter subsided ; and 
Joe, impressed by the quiet paternal authority, quickly 
devised means to obey without appearing to do so. For 
it is not so much obedience, as the manifestation of obe- 
dience, that is repugnant to human nature, — not in chil- 
dren only, but in grown folks as well. 

Joe disguised his compliance in this way. He got up, 
took off the beggar’s hat, put the spectacles into it, hold- 
ing his hand on a rip in the crown to keep them from 
falling through, and passed it around, walking solemnly in 
his brother’s abused coat. 

“ I ’m Deacon Todd,” said he, “ taking up a collection to 
buy Gentleman Bill a new cut : gunter make a missionary 
of him ! ” 

He passed the hat to the women and the girls, all of 
whom pretended to put in something. 

“ I ha’n’t got nothin’ ! ” said Fessenden’s when it came 
to him ; “I’m real sorry ! but I ’ll give my hat ! ” — ear- 
nest as could be. 

When the hat came to Mr. Williams, he quietly put in 
his hand and took out his glasses. 

“ Here, I ’ve got something for you ; I desire to con- 
tribute,” said Gentleman Bill. 

But Joe was shy of his brother. 

“ 0, we don’t let the missionary give anything ! ” he 
said. “ Here ’s the hat what you ’re gunter to wear ; — 
give it to him, Creesh ! ” 

Bill disdained the beggar’s contribution ; but, in his 
anxiety to seize Joe, he suffered his sister to slip up behind 
him and clap the wet, ragged straw wreck on his head. 

“ 0 Bill ! 0 Bill ! ” screamed the girls with merriment, 


120 


FESSENDEN’S. 


in which mother and grandmother joined, while even their 
father indulged in a silent, inward laugh. 

“ Good ! ” said Fessenden’s ; “ he may have it ! ” 

Bill, watching his opportunity, made a dash at the pre- 
tending Deacon Todd. That nimble and quick-witted 
dwarf escaped as fast as his awkward attire would permit. 
The bed seemed to be the only place of refuge, and he 
dodged under it. 

“ Come out ! ” shouted Bill, furious. 

“Come in and git me ! ” screamed Joe, defiant. 

Bill, if not too large, was far too dignified for such an 
enterprise. So he got the broom and began to stir Joe 
with the handle, not observing, in his wrath, that, the 
more he worried Joe, the more he was damaging his own 
precious broadcloth. 

“ I ’m the lion to the show ! ” cried Joe, rolling and 
tumbling under the bed to avoid the broom. “ The keep- 
er ’s a punchin’ on me, to make me roar ! ” 

And the lion roared. 

“ He ’s a gunter come into the cage by-’m-by, and put 
his head into my mouth. Then I ’m a gunter swaller 
him ! Ki ! hoo ! hoo ! oo ! ” 

He roared in earnest this time. Bill, grown desperate, 
had knocked his shins. As long as he hit him only on 
the head, the king of beasts did n’t care ; but he could 
n’t stand an attack on the more sensitive part. 

“Jest look here, now !” exclaimed the old negress, with 
unusual spirit ; “ gi’ me that broom ! ” 

She wrenched it from Bill’s hand. 

“ Perty notion, you can’t come home a minute without 
pesterin’ that boy’s life out of him ! ” 

You see, color makes no difference with grandmothers. 
Black or white, they are universally unjust, when they 
come to decide the quarrels of their favorites. 


FESSENDEN’S. 


121 


“ Great lubberly fellow like you, ’busin’ that poor 
babby all the time ! Come, Joey ! come to granny, poor 
child!” 

It was a sorry -looking lion that issued whimpering from 
the cage, limping, and rubbing his eyes. His borrowed 
hide — namely, Bill’s coat — had been twisted into mar- 
vellous shapes in the scuffle ; and, being wet, it was 
almost white with the dust and lint that adhered to it. 
Bill threw up his arms in despair ; while Joe threw his, 
great sleeves and all, around granny’s neck, and found 
comfort on her sympathizing bosom. 


IV. 


SATURDAY NIGHT AND SUNDAY. 

“ Silence, now,” said Mr. Williams, “ so ’s we can go on 
with the reading.” 

Order was restored. Bill hung up his coat, and sat 
down. Joe nestled in the old woman’s lap. And now the 
storm was heard beating against the house. 

“ Say ! ” spoke up Fessenden’s, “ can I stop here over 
night 1 ” 

“ You don’t suppose,” said Mr. Williams, “ we ’d turn 
you out in such weather as this, do you 1 ” 

“Wal!” said Fessenden’s, “nobody else would keep 
me.” 

“ Don’t you be troubled ! While we ’ve a ruf over our 
heads, no stranger don’t git turned away from it that 
wants shelter, and will put up with our ’commodations. 
We can keep you to-night, and probably to-morrow night, 
if you like to stay ; but after that I can’t promise. Mebby 
6 


122 


FESSENDEN’S. 


we sha’ n’t have a ruf for our own heads then. But we ’ll 
trust the Lord,” said Mr. Williams, with a deep serious 
smile, — while Mrs. Williams sighed. 

“How is it about that matter 1” Gentleman Bill in- 
quired. 

“The house is to be tore down Monday, I suppose,” 
replied his father, mildly. 

“ My gracious ! ” exclaimed Bill ; “ Mr. Frisbie a’ n’t 
really going to carry that threat into execution h ” 

“ That ’s what he says, William. He has got a preju- 
dice ag’inst color, you know. Since he lost the election, 
through the opposition of the abolitionists, as he thinks, 
he ’s been very much excited on the subject,” added Mr. 
Williams, in his subdued way. 

“ Excited ! ” echoed his wife, bitterly. 

She was a much-suffering woman, inclined to melan- 
choly ; but there was a latent fire in her when she seemed 
most despondent, and she roused up now and spoke with 
passionate, flashing eyes : — 

“ Sence he got beat, town-meetin’ day, he don’t ’pear to 
take no comfort, ’thout ’t is hatin’ Judge Gingerford and 
spitin’ niggers, as he calls us. He sent his hired man 
over ag’in this mornin’, to say, if we wa’n’t out of the 
house by Monday, ’t would be pulled down on to our 
heads. Call that Christian, when he knows we can’t git 
another house, there’s sich a s’picion ag’in people o’ 
color 1 ” 

“ ’T wa’n’t alluz so ; ’t wa’n’t so in my day,” said the 
old woman, pausing, as she was administering the gruel to 
Fessenden’s with a spoon. “ Here ’s gran’pa, he was a 
slave, and I was born a slave, in this here very State, as 
long ago as when they used to have slaves here, as I ’ve 
told ye time and ag’in ; though I don’t clearly remember 
it, for I scace ever knowed what bondage was, bless the 


FESSENDEN’S. 


123 


Lord ! But we alluz foun’ somebody to be kind to us, and 
got along, — for it did seem as though God kind o’ looked 
arter us, and took keer on us, same as he did o’ white 
folks. We’ve been carried through, somehow or’nother; 
and I can’t help thinkin’ as how we shall be yit, spite 
o’ Mr. Frisbie. S’pose God ’ll forgit us ’cause his grand 
church-folks do 1 S’pose all they can say ’ll pedijice 
him?” 

Having advanced this unanswerable question, she turned 
once more to her patient, who put up his head, and opened 
his mouth wide, to receive the great spoon. 

“ Lucky for them that can trust the Lord ! ” said Mrs. 
Williams, over her patching. “ But if I was a man, I ’m 
’fraid I should put my trust in a good knife, and stan’ by the 
ol’ house when they come to pull it down ! The fust man 
laid hands on ’t ’ud git hurt, I ’m dreffle ’fraid ! Prayin’ 
won’t save it, you see ! ” 

“ Mr. Frisbie owns the house,” observed Gentleman Bill, 
“ and I would n’t resort to violent measures to prevent 
him ; though ’t is n’t possible for me to believe he ’ll be 
so unhuman as to demolish it before you find another.” 

“ I ’m inclined to think he will,” answered Mr. Williams, 
calmly. “ He ’s a rather determined man, William. But 
God won’t quite forget us, I ’m sartin sure. And we won’t 
worry about the house till the time comes, anyhow. Le’ ’s 
see what the Good Book says to comfort us,” he added, 
with a hopeful smile. 

Unfortunately, the “ Timberville Gazette ” had not 
reached this benighted family; and not having the 
Judge’s Address to read, Mr. Williams read the Sermon 
on the Mount. 

Fessenden’s listened with the rest. And a light, not of 
the understanding, but of the spirit, shone upon him. 
His intellect was too feeble, I think, to draw any very 


124 


FESSENDEN’S. 


keen comparison between those houses where the “ Tim- 
ber ville Gazette ” was taken and read that evening and 
this lowly abode, — between the rich there, who had shut 
their proud, prosperous doors against him, and these poor 
servants of the Lord, who had taken him in and comforted 
him, though the hour was nigh, when they, too, were to be 
driven forth shelterless in the wintry storms. The deep 
and affecting suggestiveness of that wide contrast his mind 
was, no doubt, too weak thoroughly to appreciate. Yet 
something his heart felt, and something his soul perceived; 
his pale and vacant face was illumined ; and at the close 
of the reading he rose up. The coarse wrappings of his 
body fell away ; and the muffling ignorance, the swaddling 
dulness, wherein that divine infant, the bright immortal 
spirit, was confined, seemed also to fall off. He lifted up 
his hands, spreading them as if dispensing blessings ; and 
his countenance had a vague, smiling wonder in it, almost 
beautiful, and his voice, when he spoke, thrilled the ear. 

“ Praise the Lord ! praise the Lord ! for he will provide ! 

“ Be comforted ! for ye are the children of the Lord ! 

“ Be glad ! be glad ! for the Angel of the Lord is here ! 

“ Don’t you see him ? don’t you see him 1 There ! 
there ! ” he cried, pointing, with an earnestness and radi- 
ance of look which filled all who saw him with astonish- 
ment. They turned to gaze, as if really expecting to 
behold the vision ; then fixed their eyes again on the 
stranger. 

“ You ’ll be taken care of, the Angel says. Even they 
that hate you shall do you good. The mercy you have 
shown, Christ will show to you.” 

Having uttered these sentences at intervals, in a loud 
voice, the speaker gave a start, turned as if bewildered, 
and sat down again. 

Not a word was spoken. A hush of awe suspended the 


FESSENDEN’S. 


125 


breath of the listeners. Then a smile of fervent emotion 
lighted up like daybreak the negro’s dark visage, and his 
joy broke forth in song. The others joined him, filling the 
house with the jubilee of their wild and mellow voices. 

“ A poor wayfaring man of grief 

Hath often crossed me on my way, 

And sued so humbly for relief 
That I could never answer nay.” 

And so the fair fame of Gingerford, as we said before, 
was saved from blight. The beggar-boy awakes this Sun- 
day morning, not in the blaze of Eternity, but in that 
dim nook of the domain of Time, Nigger Williams’s hut. 
He made his couch, not on the freezing ground, but in a 
bunk of the low-roofed garret. His steaming clothes had 
been taken off, a dry shirt had been given him, and he had 
Joe for a bedfellow. 

“ Hug him tight, Joey dear !” said the old woman, as 
she carried away the candle. “ Snug up close, and keep 
him warm ! ” 

“ I will ! ” cried Joe, as affectionate as he was roguish ; 
and Fessenden’s never slept better than he did that night, 
with the tempest singing his lullaby, and the arms of the 
loving negro boy about him. 

In the morning he found his clothes ready to put on. 
They had been carefully dried ; and the old woman had 
got up early and taken a few needful stitches in them. 

“ It ’s Sunday, granny,” Creshy reminded her, to see 
what she would say. 

“ A’n’t no use lett’n’ sich holes as these ’ere go, if ’t is 
Sunday ! ” replied the old woman. “ Hope I never sh’ll 
ketch you a doin’ nuffin’ wus ! A’n’t we told to help our 
neighbor’s sheep out o’ the ditch on the Lord’s day 1 An’ 
which is mos’ consequence, I ’d like to know, the neigh- 
bor’s sheep, or the neighbor hisself?” 


126 


FESSENDEN’S. 


“ But his clothes a’n’t him,” said Creshy. 

“ S’pose I do W that 1 But what ’s a sheep for, if ’t 
a’n’t for its wool to make the clo’es 1 Then, to look arter 
the sheep that makes the clo’es, and not look arter the 
clo’es arter they ’re made, that ’s a mis’ble notion ! ” 

“ But you can mend the clothes any day.” 

“ Could I mend ’em yis’day, when I did n’t have ’em to 
mend 1 or las’ night, when they was wringin’ wet 1 Le’ me 
alone, now, with your nonsense ! ” 

“ But you can mend them to-morrow,” said the mis- 
chievous girl, delighted to puzzle her grandmother. 

“ And let that poor lorn chile go in rags over Sunday, 
freezin’ cold weather like this 1 Guess I a’n’t so ODfeelin’, 
— an’ you a’n’t nuther, for all you like to tease your ole 
granny so ! Bless the boy, seems to me he ’s jest go’n’ to 
bring us good luck. I feel as though the Angel of the 
Lord did r’a’ly come into the. house with him las’ night ! 
Wish I had somefin’ r’al good for him for his breakfas’ 
now ! He ’ll be dreffle hungry, that ’s sartin. Make a 
rousin’ good big Johnnycake, mammy ; and, Creshy, you 
stop botherin’, and slice up them ’ere taters for fryin’.” 

Soon the odor of the cooking stole up into the garret. 
Fessenden’s snuffed it with delighted senses. The feeling 
of his garments dry and whole pleased him mightily. He 
heard the call to breakfast ; and laughing and rubbing his 
eyes he followed Joe down the dark, uncertain footing of 
the stairs. 

The family was already huddled about the table. But 
room was reserved for their guest, and at his appearance 
the old patriarch rose smilingly from his seat, pulled off 
his cap, which it seemed he always wore, and shook hands 
with him, with the usual hospitable greeting. 

“ Sarvant, sah ! Welcome, sah ! ” 

Fessenden’s was given a seat by his side. And the old 


FESSENDEN’S. 


127 


woman piled his plate with good things. And he ate, and 
was filled. For he was by no means dainty, and had not, 
simple soul ! the least prejudice against color. 

And he was happy. The friendly black faces around 
him, — the cheerful, sympathetic, rich-toned voices, — the 
motherly kindness of the old woman, — the exquisite 
smiling politeness of the old man, who got up and shook 
hands with him, on an average, every half-hour, — the 
Bible-reading, — the singing, — the praying, — the ele- 
gance and condescension of Gentleman Bill, — the pleasant 
looks and words of the laughing-eyed girls, — and the 
irrepressible merriment of Joe, made that a golden Sab- 
bath in the lad’s life. 

Alas that it should come to this ! Associate with black 
folks! how shocking! What if he was a — Fessenden’s? 
was n’t he white ? Where were those finer tastes and 
instincts which make you and me shrink from persons of 
color ? He rolls and tumbles in mad frolic with Joe on 
the garret floor, and plays horse with him. He suffers his 
hair to be combed by the girls, and actually experiences 
pleasure at the touch of their gentle hands, and feels a 
vague wondering joy when they praise his smooth flaxen 
locks. In a word, he is so weak as to wish that good Mr. 
Williams was his father, and this delightful hut his home ! 

And so he spends his Sunday. The family does not 
attend public worship. They used to, when the old meet- 
ing-house was standing, and the old minister was alive. 
But they do not feel at ease in the new edifice, and the 
smart young preacher is too smart for them. His rhetoric 
is like the cold carving and frescos, — very fine, very 
admirable, no doubt ; but it has no warmth in it for 
them ; it is foreign to their common daily lives ; it comes 
not near the hopes and fears and sufferings of their humble 
hearts. Here religion, which too long suffered abasement. 


128 


FESSENDEN’S. 


is exalted. It is highly respectable. It shows culture ; it 
has the tone of society. It is worth while coming hither 
of a Sunday morning, if only to hear the organ and see the 
fashions. Yet it can hardly be expected that such crea' 
tures as the Williamses should appreciate the privilege of 
hearing and beholding from the enclosure which has been 
properly set off for their class, — the colored people’s pew. 

But Fessenden’s might have done better, one would say, 
than to stay at home with them. Why did n’t he go to 
church, and be somebody 1 He w T ould not have been put 
into the niggers’ pew. As for his clothes, which might 
have been objected to by worldly people, who would have 
thought of them, or of anything else but his immortal soul, 
in the house of God 1 Of course, there were no respecters 
of persons there, — none to say to a rich Frisbie, or an 
eloquent Gingerford, “ Sit thou, here, in a good place,” 
and to a ragged Fessenden’s, “ Stand thou there.” 

But perhaps the less said on the subject the better. 
Pass over that golden Sunday in the lad’s life. Alas, when 
will he ever have such another % For here it is Monday 
morning, and the house is to be torn down. 


Y. 


A TREMENDOUS JOKE. 

There seems to be no mistake about it. Mr. Frisbi* 
has come over early, driven in his light open carriage by 
his man Stephen, to see that the niggers are out. And 
yonder come the workmen, to begin the work of demolition. 

But the niggers are not out ; not an article of furniture 
has been removed. 


FESSENDEN’S. 


129 


“ You see, sir,” — Mr. Williams calmly represents the 
case to his landlord, as he sits in his carriage, — “ it has 
been impossible. We shall certainly go, just as soon as 
we can get another house anywhere in town — ” 

“ I don’t want you to get another house in town,” inter- 
rupts the full-blooded, red-faced Frisbie. “ We have had 
enough of you. You have had fair warning. Now out 
with your traps, and off with you ! ” 

“ I trust, at least, sir, you will give us another 
week — ” 

“ Not an hour ! 79 

“ One day,” remonstrates the mild negro ; “ I don’t 
think you will refuse us that.” 

“Not a minute ! ” exclaims the firm Frisbie. “ I ’ve 
borne with you long enough. Fact is, we have got tired 
of niggers in this town. I bought the house with you in 
it, or you never would have got in. Now it is coming 
down. Call out your folks, and save your stuff, if you ’re 
going to. — Good morning, Adsly,” to the master carpen- 
ter. “ Go to work with your fellows. Guess they ’ll be 
glad to get out by the time you ’ve ripped the roof off.” 

Mr. Williams retires, disheartened, his visage surcharged 
with trouble. For this wretched dwelling was his home, 
and dear to him. It was the centre of his world. Around 
it all the humble hopes and pleasures of the man had clus- 
tered for years. When weary with the long day’s heavy 
toil, here he had found rest. To this spot his spirit, sor- 
row-laden, had ever turned with gratitude and yearning. 
And here he had found shelter, here he had found love and 
comfort, the lonely, despised man. Even care and grief 
had contributed to strengthen the hold of his heart upon 
this soil. Here had died the only child he had ever lost ; 
and in the old burying-ground, over the hill yonder, it was 
buried. Under this mean roof he had laid his sorrows 
6 * 


I 


130 


FESSENDEN’S. 


before the Lord, he had wrestled with the Lord in prayer, 
and his burdens had been taken from him, and light and 
gladness had been poured upon his soul. 0 ye proud ! 
do you think that happiness dwells only in high places, or 
that these lowly homes are not dear to the poor 1 

But now this sole haven of the negro and his family was 
to be destroyed. Cruel cold blew the December wind, that 
wintry morning. And the gusts of the landlord’s temper 
were equally pitiless. 

Gentleman Bill, full of confidence in his powers of per- 
suasion, advances, to add the weight of his respectability 
to his parents’ remonstrance. 

“ Good morning, Mr. Frisbie,” — politely lifting his hat. 

“ Hey 1 ” says Frisbie, sarcastic. — “ Look at his inso- 
lence, Stephen ! ” 

“ I sincerely trust, sir,” begins Bill, “ that you will 
reconsider your determination, sir — ” 

“ Shall I fetch him a cut with the hosswhip 3 ” whis- 
pers Stephen, loud enough for the stalwart young black to 
hear. 

“ You can fetch him a cut with the hosswhip, if you 
like,” Bill answers for Mr. Frisbie, with fire blazing up in 
his polite face. “ But, sir, in case you do, sir, I shall take 
it upon myself to teach you better manners than to insult 
a gentleman conferring with your master, sir ! ” 

“ Ha, ha, ha!” roared Mr. Frisbie. “You’ve got it, 
Stephen ! ” 

The whip trembled in Stephen’s angry hand, but the 
strapping young negro looked so cool and wicked, standing 
there, that he wisely forbore to strike. 

“I am sure, sir,” Bill addresses the landlord, “you are 
too humane a person — ” 

“No, I a’n’t,” says the florid Frisbie. “ I know what 
you ’re going to say ; but it ’s no use. You can’t work 


FESSENDEN’S. 


131 


upon my feelings; I a’n’t one of your soft kind. Drive 
up to the door, Stephen.” 

Stephen is very glad to start the horse suddenly and 
graze Gentleman Bill’s knee with the wheel-hub. Bill 
steps back a pace, and follows him with the smiting look 
of one who treasures up wrath. You had better be careful, 
Stephen, let me tell you ! 

Joe stands holding the door open, and Mr. Frisbie looks 
in. There, to his astonishment, he sees the women washing 
clothes as unconcernedly as if nothing unusual was about 
to occur. He jumps to the ground, heated with passion. 

“ Ho, here ! ” he shouts in at the door ; “ don’t you see 
the house is coming down ? ” 

Upon which the deaf old grandfather rises in his corner, 
and pulls off his cap, with the usual salutation, “ Sarvant, 
sah,” etc., and, sitting down again, relapses into a doze 
immediately. 

Frisbie is furious.. “ What you ’bout here?” he cries, 
in an alarming voice. 

“ Bless you, sir,” answers the old woman over a tub, 
“ don’t you see ? We ’re doon’ a little washin’, sir. Did n’t 
you never see nobody wash afore 1 ” And she proceeds 
with her rubbing. 

“ The house will be tumbling on you in ten minutes ! ” 

“ You think so 1 Now I don’t, Mr. Frisbie ! This ’ere 
house a’n’t go’n’ to tumble down this mornin’, I know. 
The Lord ’ll look out for that, I guess. Look o’ these ’ere 
children ! look o’ me ! look o’ my ole father there, more ’n 
a hundred year ole ! What ’s a go’n’ to ’come on us all, if 
you pull the house down ? Can’t git another right away ; 
no team to haul our things off with ; an’ how ’n the world 
we can do ’thout no house this winter, I can’t see. So I ’ve 
jes’ concluded to trust the Lord, an’ git out my washin’.” 
Kub, rub, rub ! 


132 


FESSENDEN’S. 


Frisbie grows purple. “ Are you fools 1 ” he inquires. 

“ Yes, I am ! I ’m Fessenden’s.” And the honest star- 
ing youth comes forward to see what is wanted. 

This unexpected response rather pricks the wind-bag of 
the man’s zeal. He looks curiously at the boy, who follows 
him out of the house. 

“ Stephen, did you ever see that fellow before 1 ” 

“ Yes, sir ; he ’s the one come to our house Saturday 
night, and I showed round to the Judge’s.” 

“ Are you the fellow 1 ” 

“Yes,” says Fessenden’s. “There wouldn’t any of you 
let me into your houses, neither ! ” 

“ Would n’t the people I sent you to let you in 1” 

“No!” 

“ Hear that, Stephen ! your philanthropical Gingerford ! 
And what did you do 1 ” 

“ I did n’t do nothin’, — only laid down to die, I did.” 

“ But you did n’t die, did you 1 ” 

“ No ! This man he come along, and brought me here.” 

" Here 1 to the niggers 1 ” 

“ Yes ! You would n’t have me, so they took me, and 
dried me, and fed me, — good folks, niggers ! ” Fessen- 
den’s bore this simple testimony. 

What is it makes the Frisbie color heighten so 1 Is it 
Gentleman Bill’s quiet smile, as he stands by and hears 
this conversation ? 

“ And you have been here ever since ” says the man, 
in a humbler key, and with a milder look, than before. 

“ Yes ! It ’s a re’l good place ! ” says the youth. 

“ But a’n’t you ashamed to live with niggers 1 ” 

“ Ashamed 1 What for 1 Nobody else was good to me. 
But they was good to me. I a’n’t ashamed.” 

The Frisbie color heightens more and more. He looks 
at that wretched dwelling, — he glances aside at Mr. 


FESSENDEN’S. 


133 


Williams, that coal-black Christian, of sad and resigned 
demeanor, waiting ruefully to see the roof torn off, — the 
only roof that had afforded shelter to the perishing out- 
cast. Mr. Frisbie is not one of the “ soft kind,” but 
he feels the prick of conscience in his heart. 

“ Why did n’t you go to the poorhouse 1 Did n’t any- 
body tell you to 1 ” 

“ Yes, that ’s what they said. But nobody showed me 
the way, and I could n’t find it.” 

“ Where did you come from 1 Who are you 'i ” 

“ Fessenden’s.” 

“ Who is Fessenden ? ” 

“ The man that owns me. But he whipped me and shet 
me up, and I would n’t stay.” 

“ Where does he live 1 ” 

“ Don’t know. Away off.” 

“ You ’d better go back to him, had n’t you 'l ” 

“ No ! I like these folks. Best folks I ever seen ! ” 
avers the earnest youth. 

Flush and confusion are in the rich man’s face. He 
turns up an uneasy glance at Adsly’s men, already on the 
roof ; then coughs, and says to Stephen, — 

“ This is interesting ! ” 

“ Very,” says Stephen. 

“ Don’t you remember, I was going to make some pro- 
vision for this fellow, — I ’d have seen him safe in the alms- 
house, if nothing more, — but you suggested Gingerford’s.” 

“ I supposed Gingerford would be delighted to take him 
in,” grins Stephen. 

“ Instead of that, he turns him out in the storm ! Did 
you ever hear of such sham philanthropy 'l By George ! ” 
cries Frisbie, in his indignation against the Judge, “there’s 
more real philanthropy in these niggers ” — checking him- 
self, and glancing again at the workmen on the roof. 


134 


FESSENDEN’S. 


“ What ’s philanthropy 1 ” asked Fessenden’s. “ Is that 
what you ’re tearin’ their house down for 1 I ’m sorry ! ” 

Frisbie is flustered. He is ashamed of appearing “ soft.” 
He wishes heartily to be well rid of the niggers. But some- 
thing in his own heart rebels against the course he has 
taken to eject them. 

“ Just hold on there a minute, Adsly ! ” 

“ Ay, ay ! ” says Adsly. And the work stops. 

“Now what do I do this for?” exclaims Frisbie, vexed 
at himself the instant he has spoken. And he frowns, and 
blows his nose furiously. “ It ’s because I am too good- 
natured altogether ! ” 

“ No, no, sir, — I beg your pardon ! ” says Mr. Wil- 
liams, his heart all aglow with gratitude. “ To be kind 
and merciful to the poor, that is n’t to be too good-natured, 
sir ! ” 

“Well, well! I a’n’t one of your milk-and-water sort. 
Look at such a man as Gingerford, for example ! But I 
guess, come case in hand, you ’ll find as much genuine hu- 
manity in me, Adsly, as in them that profess so much. 
Wait till to-morrow before you knock the old shell to 
pieces. I ’ll give ’em another day. And in the mean 
time, boy,” turning to Fessenden’s, “you must find you 
another home. Either go back to your guardian, or I ’ll 
send you over to the almshouse. These people can’t keep 
you, for they ’ll have no house in these parts to keep them- 
selves in.” 

“Sol” says Fessenden’s. “They kep’ me when they 
had a house, and I ’ll stay with them when they have n’t 
got any.” 

Something in the case of this unfortunate stripling 
interests Frisbie. His devotion to his new friends is so 
sincere, and so simply expressed, that the robust, well- 
fed man is almost touched by it. 


FESSENDEN’S. 


135 


“ I vow, it ’s a queer case, Stephen ! What do you 
think of it 1 ?” 

“ I think — ” says the joker. 

“ What do you think ? Out with it ! ” 

“You own that vacant lot opposite Gingerford’s ? ” 

“ Yes ; what of that 1 ” 

“ I think, then, instead of pulling the house down, I ’d 
just move it over there, niggers and all- — ” 

“ And set it opposite the Judge’s ! ” exclaims Frisbie, 
catching gleefully at the idea. 

“Exactly,” says Stephen; “and give him enough of 
niggers for one while.” 

“ I ’ll do it ! — Adsly ! Adsly ! See here, Adsly ! Do 
you suppose this old box can be moved?” 

“I guess so. ’T a’n’t very large. Kuther think the 
frame ’ll hold together.” 

“ Will you undertake the job 1 ” 

“Wal, I never moved a house. There’s Cap’en Slade, 
he moves houses. He’s got all the tackle for it, and I 
ha’n’t. I suppose I can git him, if you want me to see to 
the job.” 

Agreed! It did not take Frisbie long to decide. It 
was such a tremendous joke ! A nest of niggers under the 
dainty Gingerford nose! ho, ho! Whip up, Stephen! 
And the red and puffy face, redder and puffier still with 
immense fun, rode off. 


YI. 

THE REMOVAL. 

Adsly and his men disappeared also, to return with 
Cap’en Slade and his tackle on the morrow. Then Joe 
began to dance and scream like a little devil. 


136 


FESSENDEN’S. 


“ Have a ride ! have a ride ! 0 mammy ! they ’re 

gunter snake th’ ole house through the village to-morrer, 
an’ we ’re all gunter have a ride ! free gratis for nothin’ ! 
’thout payin’ for ’t neither ! A’n’t we, Bill 1 ” 

Mrs. Williams sits right down, overcome by the sur- 
prise. 

“ Now I want to know if that ’ere ’s so 1 ” 

“ That ’s what ’t looks like now,” says Mr. Williams. 
“ We ’re goin’ to be sot opposite Mr. Gingerford’s.” 

“ ’Ristocratic ! ” cries Joe, putting on airs. “ That ’s 
what ’ll tickle Bill ! ” 

“ 0, laws ! ” exclaims Mrs. Williams, with humorous 
sadness, — “ what a show th’ ole cabin ’ll make, stuck 
down there ’mongst all them fine housen ! ” 

“ I don’t know ’s I quite like the notion,” says her hus- 
band, with a good-natured expansion of his serious features. 
“ I ’m ’fraid we sha’ n’t be welcome neighbors down there. 
’T a’n’t so much out o’ kindness to us as it is out o’ spite 
to the Gingerfords, that the house is to be moved instid o' 
tore down.” 

“ That ’s the glory of the Lord ! Even the wrath of 
man shall praise him ! ” utters the old grandmother, de- 
voutly. 

“ Won’t it be jimmy*?” crows Joe. “He’s a jolly ole 
brick, that Frisbie ! I ’m a-gunter set straddle on the 
ridge-pole an’ carry a flag. Hooray ! ” 

“ I consider that the situation will be very much prefer- 
able to this,” observes Gentleman Bill, polishing his hat 
with his coat-sleeve. “ Better quarter of the town ; more 
central ; eligible locality for establishing a tailor-shop.” 

“ Legible comicality for stablin’ a shailor-top ! ” stam- 
mers Joe, mimicking his brother. 

Upon which Bill — as he sometimes did, when excited — 
relapsed into the vulgar but expressive idiom of the fam- 


FESSENDEN’S. 


137 


ily. “Shet yer head, can’t ye?” And he lifted a hand 
with intent to clap it smartly upon the part the occlusion 
of which was desirable. 

Joe shrieked and fled. 

“ No quarrellin’ on a ’casion like this ! ” interposes the 
old woman, covering the boy’s retreat. “ This ’ere ’s a 
time for joy and thanks, an’ nuflin’ else. Bless the Lord, 
I knowed he ’d keep an eye on to th’ ole house. Did n’t 
I tell ye that boy ’d bring us good luck ? It ’s all on his 
account the house a’n’t tore down, an’ I consider it a 
mighty Providence from fust to last. Was n’t I right, 
when I said I guessed I ’d have faith, an’ git the washin’ 
out ? Bless the Lord, I could cry ! ” 

And cry she did, with a fulness of heart which, I think, 
might possibly have convinced even the jocund Frisbie 
that there was something better than an old, worn-out, 
spiteful jest in the resolution he had taken to have the 
house moved, instead of razed. 

And now the deaf old patriarch in the corner became 
suddenly aware that something exciting was going for- 
ward ; but being unable clearly to comprehend what, and 
chancing to see Fessenden’s coming in, he gave expression 
to his exuberant emotions by rising, and shaking the lad’s 
passive hand, with the usual highly polite salutation. 

“ Tell him we ’re all a-gunter have a ride,” said Joe. 

But as Fessenden’s could n’t tell him loud enough, Joe 
screamed the news. 

“ Say ? ” asked the old man, raising a feeble hand to his 
ear, and stooping and smiling. 

“ Put th’ ole house on wheels, an’ dror it ! ” shrieked 
Joe. 

“ Yes, yes ! ” chuckled the old man. “ I remember ! 
Six hills in a row. Busters ! ” — looking wonderfully 
knowing, and with feeble forefinger raised, nodding and 


138 


FESSENDEN’S. 


winking at his great-grandchild, — as it were across the 
dim gulf of a hundred years which divided the gleeful boy- 
hood of Joe from the second childhood of the ancient 
dreamer. 

The next day came Adsly and his men again, with 
Cap’en Slade and his tackle, and several yokes of oxen 
with drivers. Levers and screws moved the house from 
its foundations, and it was launched upon rollers. Then, 
progress ! Then, sensation in Timberville ! Some said it 
was Noah’s ark sailing down the street. The household 
furniture of the patriarch was mostly left on board the 
antique craft, but Noah and his family followed on foot. 
They took their live stock with them, • — cow and calf, and 
poultry and pig. Joe and his great-grandfather carried 
each a pair of pullets in their hands. Gentleman Bill 
drove the pig, with a rope tied to his (piggy’s) leg. Mr. 
Williams transported more poultry, — turkeys and hens, 
in two great flopping clusters, slung over his shoulder, 
with their heads down. The women bore crockery and 
other frangible articles, and helped Fessenden’s drive the 
cow. A picturesque procession, not noiseless ! The bosses 
shouted to the men, the drivers shouted to the oxen, loud 
groaned the beams of the ark, the cow lowed, the calf 
bawled, great was the squawking and squealing ! 

Gentleman Bill was sick of the business before they had 
gone half-way. He wished he had stayed in the shop, in- 
stead of coming over to help the family, and make himself 
ridiculous. There was not much pleasure in driving that 
stout young porker. Many a sharp jerk lamed the hand 
that held the rope that restrained the leg that piggy 
wanted to run with. Besides (as 1 believe swine and 
some other folks invariably do under the like circum- 
stances), piggy always tried to run in the wrong direction. 
To add to Gentleman’s Bill’s annoyance, spectators soon 


FESSENDEN’S. 


139 


became numerous, and witty suggestions were not want- 
ing. 

“ Take him up in your arms,” said somebody. 

“Take advantage of his contrariness, and drive him 
t’ other way,” said somebody else. 

“ Ride him,” proposed a third. 

“ Make a whistle of his tail, an’ blow it, an’ he ’ll foller 
ye ! ” screamed a bright school-boy. 

“ Stick some of yer tailor’s needles into him ! ” “ Sew 

him up in a sack, and shoulder him ! ” “ Take up his 

hind-legs, and push him like a wheelbarrer ! ” And so 
forth, and so forth, till Bill was in a fearful sweat and 
rage, partly with the pig, but chiefly with the uncivil 
multitude. 

“ Ruther carry me on your back, some rainy night, had 
n’t ye ? ” said Fessenden’s, in all simplicity, perceiving his 
distress. 

“ You did n’t excruciate my wrist so like time ! ” 
groaned Bill. And what was more, darkness covered that 
other memorable journey. 

As for Joe, he liked it. Though he was not allowed to 
ride the ridge-pole and wave a flag through the village, as 
he proposed, he had plenty of fun on foot. He went 
swinging his chickens, and frequently pinching them to 
make them musical. The laughter of the lookers-on did n’t 
trouble him in the least ; for he could laugh louder than 
any. But his sisters were ashamed, and Mr. Williams 
looked grave ; for they were, actually, human ! and I sup- 
pose they did not like to be jeered at, and called a swarm 
of niggers, any more than you or I would. 

So the journey was accomplished ; and the stupendous 
joke of Frisbie’s was achieved. Conceive Mrs. Gingerford’s 
wonder, when she beheld the ark approaching ! Fancy 
her feelings, when she saw it towed up and moored in 


140 


FESSENDEN’S. 


front of her own door, — the whole tribe of Noah, lowing 
cow, bawling calf, squawking poultry, and squealing pig, 
and so forth, and so forth, accompanying ! This, then, 
was the meaning of the masons at work over there since 
yesterday. They had been preparing the new foundations 
on which the old house was to rest. So the stunning truth 
broke upon her : niggers for neighbors ! What had she 
done to merit such a dispensation 1 ? 

What done, unhappy lady 1 ? Your own act has drawn 
down upon you this retribution. You yourself have done 
quite as much towards bringing that queer craft alongside 
as yonder panting and lolling oxen. They are but the 
brute instruments, while you have been a moral agent in 
the matter. One word, uttered by you three nights ago, 
has had the terrible magic in it to summon forth from the 
mysterious womb of events this extraordinary procession. 
Had but a different word been spoken, it would have 
proved equally magical, though we might never have 
known it; that breath by your delicate lips would have 
blown back these horrible shadows, and instead of all this 
din and confusion of house-hauling, we should have had 
silence this day in the streets of Timberville. You don’t 
see it ? In plain phrase, then, understand : you took not 
in the stranger at your gate ; but he found refuge with 
these blacks, and because they showed mercy unto him 
the sword of Frisbie’s wrath was turned aside from them, 
and, edged by Stephen’s witty jest, directed against you 
and yours. Hence this interesting scene which you look 
down upon from your windows, at the beautiful hour of 
sunset, which you love. And, 0, to think of it ! between 
your chamber and those golden sunsets that negro-hut 
and those negroes will always be henceforth ! 

But we will not mock at your calamity. You did pre- 
cisely what any of us would have been only too apt to do 


FESSENDEN’S. 


141 


in your place. You told the simple truth, when you said 
you did n’t want the ragged wretch in your house. And 
what person of refinement, I should like to know, would 
have wanted him] For, say what you will, it is a most 
disagreeable thing to admit downright dirty vagabonds into 
our elegant dwellings. And dangerous, besides ; for they 
might murder us in the night, or steal something ! 0, 

we fastidious and fearful ! where is our charity 1 where is 
the heart of trust ] There was of old a Divine Man, who 
had not where to lay his head, — whom the wise of those 
days scoffed at as a crazy fellow, — whom respectable peo- 
ple shunned, — who made himself the companion of the 
poor, the comforter of the distressed, the helper of those in 
trouble, and the healer of diseases, — who shrank neither 
from the man or woman of sin, nor from the loathsome 
leper, nor from sorrow and death for our sakes, — whose 
gospel we now profess to live by, and — 

But let us not be “ soft.” We are reasonably Christian, 
we hope ; and it shows low breeding to be ultra. (Was the 
Carpenter’s Son low-bred 1) 


VIL 

GINGERFORD. 

And now the Judge rides home in the dusk of the 
December day. It is still light enough, however, for him 
to see that Frisbie’s vacant lot has been made an Ararat 
of ; and he could hear the Noachian noises, were it never 
so dark. The awful jest bursts upon him ; he hears the 
screaming of the bomb-shell, then the explosion. But the 
mind of this man is (so to speak) casemated. It is a 
shock, — but he never once loses his self-possession. His 


142 


FESSENDEN’S. 


quick perception detects Friend Frisbie behind the gun ; 
and he smiles with his intelligent, fine-cut face. Shall 
malice have the pleasure of knowing that the shot has told ] 
Our orator is too sagacious for that. There is never any 
use in being angry; that is one of his maxims. Therefore, 
if he feels any chagrin, he will smother it. If there is a 
storm within, the world shall see only the rainbow, that 
radiant smile of his. Cool is Gingerford ! He has seized 
the subject instantly, and calculated all its bearings. He 
is a man to make the best of it ; and even the bitterness 
which is in it shall, if possible, brew him some wholesome 
drink. To school his mind to patience, to practise daily 
the philanthropy he teaches, — this will be much ; and 
already his heart is humbled and warmed. And who 
knows, — for with all his sincerity and aspiration he has 
an eye to temporal uses, — who knows but this stumbling- 
block an enemy has placed in his way may prove the step- 
ping-stone of his ambition] 

“ What is all this, James] ” he inquires of his son, who 
comes out to the gate to meet him. 

“ Frisbie’s meanness ! ” says the young man, almost 
choking. “ And the whole town is laughing at us ! ” 

“ Laughing at us ] What have we done ] ” mildly an- 
swers the parent. “ I tell you what, James, they sha’ n’t 
laugh at us long. We can live so as to compel them to 
reverence us ; and if there is any ridicule attached to the 
affair, it will soon rest where it belongs.” 

“ Such a sty stuck right down under our noses ! ” mut- 
ters the mortified James. 

“We will make of it an ornament,” retorts the Judge, 
with mounting spirits. “ Come with me,” - — taking the 
youth’s arm. “ My son, call no human habitation a sty. 
These people are our brothers, and we will show them the 
kindness of brethren.” 


FESSENDEN’S. 


143 


A servant receives the horse, and Gingerford and his 
son cross the street. 

“ Good evening, Friend Williams ! So you have con- 
cluded to come and live neighbor to us, have you % ” 

Friend Williams was at the end of the house, occupied 
in improvising a cow-shed under an old apple-tree. Piggy 
was already tied to the trunk of the tree, and the hens 
and turkeys were noisily selecting their roosts in the 
boughs. At sight of the Judge, whose displeasure he 
feared, the negro was embarrassed, and hardly knew what 
to say. But the pleasant greeting of the silver-toned voice 
reassured him, and he stopped his work to frame his can- 
did, respectful answer. 

“ It was Mr. Frisbie that concluded. All I had to do 
was to go with the house wherever he chose to move it.” 

“ Well, he might have done much worse by you. You 
have a nice landlord, a nice landlord, Mr. Williams. Mr. 
Frisbie is a very fine man.” 

It was Gingerford’ s practice to speak well of everybody 
with whom he had any personal relations, and especially 
well of his enemies ; because, as he used to say to his son, 
evil words commonly do more harm to him who utters 
them than to those they are designed to injure, while fair 
and good words are easily spoken, and are the praise of 
their author, if of nobody else ; for, if the subject of them 
is a bad man, they will not be accepted as literally true 
by any one that knows him, but, on the contrary, they 
will be set down to the credit of your good-nature, — or 
who knows but they may become coals of fire upon the 
head of your enemy, and convert him into a friend h 

James had now an opportunity to test the truth of these 
observations. Was Mr. Williams convinced that Frisbie 
was a nice landlord and a fine man 1 By no means. But 
that Judge Gingerford was a fine man, and a charitable, 


144 


FESSENDEN’S. 


he believed more firmly than ever. Then there was Ste- 
phen standing by, — having, no doubt, been sent by his 
master to observe the chagrin of the Gingerfords, and to 
bring back the report thereof; who, when he heard the 
Judge’s words, looked surprised and abashed, and pres- 
ently stole away, himself discomfited. 

“ I pray the Lord,” said Mr. Williams, humbly and 
heartily, “you won’t consider us troublesome neighbors.” 

“ I hope not,” replied the Judge ; “ and why should II 
You have a good, honest reputation, Friend Williams ; 
and I hear that you are a peaceable and industrious family. 
We ought to be able to serve each other in many ways. 
What can I do for you, to begin with 1 Would n’t you 
like to turn your cow and calf into my yard?” 

“ Thank you a thousand times, if I can just as well as 
not,” said the grateful negro. “ We had to tear down the 
shed and pig-pen when we moved the house, and I ha’n’t 
had time to set ’em up again.” 

“And I imagine you have had enough to do, for one 
day. Let your children drive the creatures through the 
gate yonder ; my man will show them the shed. Are you 
a good gardener, Mr. Williams ? ” 

“ I ’ve done consid’able at that sort of work, sir.” 

“ I ’m glad of that. I have to hire a good deal of gar- 
dening done. I see we are going to be very much 
obliged to your landlord for bringing us so near together. 
And this is your father ? ” 

“ My grandfather, sir,” said Mr. Williams. 

“ Your grandfather ? I must shake hands with him.” 

“ Sarvant, sah,” said the old man, cap off, bowing and 
smiling there in the December twilight. 

“ He ’s deaf as can be,” said Mr. Williams ; “ you ’ll 
have to talk loud, to make him hear. He ’s more ’n a 
hundred years old.” 


FESSENDEN’S. 


145 


“You astonish me!” exclaimed the Judge. “A very- 
remarkable old person ! I should delight to converse with 
him, — to kno vv what his thoughts are in these new times, 
and what his memories are of the past, which, I suppose, 
is even now more familiar to his mind than the objects of 
to-day. God bless you, my venerable friend ! ” shaking 
hands a second time with the ancient black, and speaking 
in a loud voice. 

“Tankee, sah, — very kind!” smiled the flattered old 
man. “Sarvant, sah.” 

“ ’T is you who are kind, to take notice of young fel- 
lows like me,” pleasantly replied the Judge. “ Well, good 
evening, friends. I shall always be glad to know if there 
is anything I can do for you. Ha ! what is this 1 ” 

It was the cow and calf coming back again, followed by 
Joe and Fessenden’s. 

“ Gorry ! ” cried Joe, “ wa’n’t that man madl Thought 
he ’d bite th’ ole cow’s tail off ! ” 

“ What man ] My man 1 Dorson 1 ” 

“Yes,” said honest Fessenden’s; “he said he’d be 
damned if he ’d have a nigger’s critters along with 
hisn 1 ” 

“ Then we ’ll afford him an early opportunity to be 
damned,” observed the Judge. “Drive them back again. 
I ’ll go with you. By the way, Mr. Williams,” — Ginger- 
ford saw Dorson approaching, and spoke loud enough for 
him to hear and understand, — “ are you accustomed to 
taking care of horses ? I may find it necessary to employ 
some one before long.” 

“ Wal, yes, sir ; I ’m tol’able handy about a stable,” 
replied the negro. 

“ Hollo, there ! ” called the man, somewhat sullenly, 
“drive that cow back here! Why didn’t you tell me 
’t was the boss’s orders 1 ” 


146 


FESSENDEN’S. 


“ Did tell him so ; and he said as how I lied,” said Joe, 
— driving the animals back triumphantly. 

The Judge departed with his son, — a thoughtful and 
aspiring youth, who pondered deeply what he had seen 
and heard, as he walked by his father’s side. And Mr. 
Williams, greatly relieved and gratified by the interview, 
hastened to relate to his family the good news. And the 
praises of Gingerford were on all their tongues, and in 
their prayers that night he was not forgotten. 

Three days after, the Judge’s man was dismissed from 
his place, in consequence of difficulties originating in the 
affair of the cow. The Judge had sought an early oppor- 
tunity to converse with him on the subject. 

“ A negro’s cow, Mr. Dorson,” said he, “ is as good as 
anybody’s cow ; and I consider Mr. Williams as good a 
man as you are.” 

The white coachman could not stand that ; and the 
result was that Gingerford had a black coachman in a 
few days. The situation was offered to Mr. Williams, and 
very glad he was to accept it. 


VIII. 

gingerford’s neat revenge. 

Thus the wrath of man continued to work the welfare 
of these humble Christians. It is reasonable to doubt 
whether the Judge was at heart delighted with his new 
neighbors ; and jolly Mr. Frisbie enjoyed the joke some- 
what less, I suspect, than he anticipated. One party en- 
joyed it nevertheless. It was a serious and solid satisfac- 
tion to the Williams family. No member of which, with 
the exception, perhaps, of Joe, exhibited greater pleasure 


FESSENDEN’S. 


147 


at the change in their situation than the old patriarch. It 
rejuvenated him. His hearing was almost restored. “ One 
move more,” he said, “ and I shall be young and spry ag’in 
as the day I got my freedom,” — that day, so many, many 
years ago, which he so well remembered ! Well, the “one 
move more ” was near ; and the morning of a new free- 
dom, the morning of a more perfect youth and gladness, 
was not distant. 

It was the old man’s delight to go out and sit in the 
sun before the door in the clear December weather, and 
pull off his cap to the Judge as he passed. To get a 
bow, and perhaps a kind word, from the illustrious Gin- 
gerford, was glory enough for one day, and the old man 
invariably hurried into the house to tell of it. 

But one morning a singular thing occurred. To all 
appearances — to the eyes of all except one — he remained 
sitting out there in the sun after the Judge had gone. 
But Fessenden’s looking up suddenly, and, staring at 
vacancy, cried, — 

“ Hollo ! ” 

“ What, child ? ” asked Mrs. Williams. 

“ The old man ! ” said Fessenden’s. “ Cornin’ into the 
door ! Don’t ye see him 1 ” 

Nobody saw him but the lad ; and of course all were 
astonished by his earnest announcement of the apparition. 
The old grandmother hastened to look out. There sat her 
father still, on the bench by the apple-tree, leaning against 
the trunk. But the sight did not satisfy her. She ran 
out to him The smile of salutation was still on his lips, 
which seemed just saying, “ Sarvant, sah,” to the Judge. 
But those lips would never move again. They were the 
lips of death. 

“What is the matter, Williams 1” asked the Judge, on 
his return home that afternoon. 


148 


FESSENDEN’S. 


“ My gran’ther is dead, sir ; and I don’t know where to 
bury him.” This was the negro’s quiet and serious answer. 

“Dead 1 ?” ejaculates the Judge. “Why, I saw him 
only this morning, and had a smile from him ! ” 

“ That was his last smile, sir. You can see it on his 
face yet. He went to heaven with that smile, we trust.” 

The Judge leaves everything and goes home with his 
coachman. Sure enough ! there is the same smile he saw 
in the morning, frozen on the face of the corpse. 

“ Gently and late death came to him ! ” says Ginger- 
ford. “ Would we could all die as happy ! There is no 
occasion to mourn, my good woman.” 

“ Bless the Lord, I don’t mourn ! ” replied the old ne- 
gress. “ But I ’m so brimful of thanks, I must cry for ’t ! 
He died a blessed ole Christian ; an’ he ’s gone straight to 
glory, if there ’s anything in the promises. He is free 
now, if he never was afore ; — for, though they pretend 
there a’n’t no slaves in this ’ere State, an’ the law freed us 
years ago, seems to me there a’n’t no re’l liberty for us, 
’cept this ! ” She pointed at the corpse, then threw up 
her eyes and hands with an expression of devout and joy- 
ful gratitude. “ He ’s gone where there a’n’t no predijice 
agin color, bless the Lord ! He ’s gone where all them 
that ’s been washed with the blood of Christ is all of one 
color in his sight ! ” Then turning to the Judge, — “ And 
you ’ll git your reward, sir, he sure o’ that ! ” 

“My reward 1” And Gingerford, touched with genuine 
emotion, shook his head sadly. 

“ Yes, sir, your reward,” repeated the old woman, ten- 
derly arranging the sheet over the still breast and folded 
hands of the corpse. “ For makin’ his last days happy, — 
for makin’ his last minutes happy, I may say. That ’ere 
smile was for you, sir. You was kinder to him ’n folks in 
gin’ral.. He wa’n’t used to ’t. An’ he felt it. An’ he ’s 


FESSENDEN’S. 


149 


gone to glory with the news on ’t. An’ it ’ll be sot down 
to your credit there, in the Big Book.” 

Where was the Judge’s eloquence ? He could not find 
words to frame a fitting reply to this ignorant black wo- 
man, whose emotion was so much deeper than any fine 
phrases of his could reach, and whose simple faith and 
gratitude overwhelmed him with the sudden conviction that 
he had never yet said anything to the purpose, in all his 
rhetorical defences of the down-trodden race. From that 
conviction came humility. Out of humility rose inspira- 
tion. Two days later his eloquence found tongue; and 
this was the occasion of it. 

The body of the old negro was to be buried. That he 
should be simply put into the ground, and nothing said, 
any more than if he were a brute, did not seem befitting 
the obsequies of so old a man and so faithful a Christian. 
The family had natural feelings on that subject. They 
wanted to have a funeral sermon. 

Now it so happened that there was to be another funeral 
in the village about that time. The old minister, had he 
been living, might have managed to attend both. But the 
young minister could not think of such a thing. The 
loveliest flower of maidenhood in his parish had been cut 
down. One of the first families had been bereaved. Day 
and night he must ponder and scribble to prepare a suita- 
ble discourse. And then, having exhausted spiritual grace 
in bedecking the tomb of the lovely, should he — good 
heavens ! could he descend from those heights of beauty 
and purity to the grave of a superannuated negro ? Could 
divine oratory so descend 1 

“ On that fair mountain leave to feed, 

And batten on this moor 1 ” 

Ought the cup of consolation, which he extended to his 
best, his worthiest friends and parishioners, to be passed 
in the same hour to thick African lips? 


150 


FESSENDEN’S. 


Which questions were, of course, decided in the negative. 
There was another minister in the village, but he was sick. 
What should be done 1 To go wandering about the world 
in search of somebody to preach the funeral sermon seemed 
a hard case, — as Mr. Williams remarked to the Judge. 

“ Tell you what, Williams,” said the Judge, — “ don’t 
give yourself any more trouble on that account. I ’m not 
a minister, nor half good enough for one,” — he could af- 
ford to speak disparagingly of himself, the beautiful, gra- 
cious gentleman ! — “ but if you can’t do any better, I ’ll 
be present and say a few words at the funeral.” 

“ Thank you a thousand times ! ” said the grateful ne- 
gro. “ Could n’t be nothin’ better ’n that ! We never ex- 
pected no such honor ; an’ if my ole gran’ther could have 
knowed you would speak to his funeral, he ’d have been 
proud, sir ! ” 

“ He was a simple-minded old soul ! ” replied the Judge, 
pleasantly. “And you’re another, Williams ! However, 
I ’m glad you are satisfied. So this difficulty is settled, 
too.” For already one very serious difficulty had been 
arranged through this man’s kindness. 

Did I neglect to mention it, — how, when the old negro 
died, his family had no place to bury him 1 The rest of 
his race, dying before him, had been gathered to the 
mother’s bosom in distant places : long lines of dusky an- 
cestors in Africa ; a few descendants in America, — here 
and there a grave among New England hills. Only one, a 
child of Mr. Williams’s, had died in Timberville, and been 
placed in the old burying-ground over yonder. But that 
was now closed against interments. And as for purchas- 
ing a lot in the new cemetery, — how could poor Mr. 
Williams ever hope to raise money to pay for it 1 

“Williams,” said the Judge, “I own several lots there, 
and if you ’ll be a good boy, I ’ll make you a present of 
one.” 


FESSENDEN’S. 


151 


Ah, Gingerford ! Gingerford ! was it pure benevolence 
that prompted the gift 1 Was the smile with which you 
afterwards related the circumstance to dear Mrs. Ginger- 
ford a smile of sincere satisfaction at having done a good 
action and witnessed the surprise and gratitude of your 
black coachman 1 Tell us, was it altogether an accident, 
with no tincture whatever of pleasant malice in it, that the 
lot you selected, out of several, to be the burial-place of 
negroes, lay side by side with the proud family- vault of 
your neighbor Frisbie 1 

The Judge was one of those cool heads, who, when they 
have received an injury, do not go raving of it up and 
down, but put it quietly aside, and keep their temper, and 
rest content to wait patiently, perhaps years, perhaps a 
lifetime, for the opportunity of a sudden and pat revenge. 
Indeed, I suppose he would have been well satisfied to an- 
swer Frisbie’s spite with the nobler revenge of magnanimity 
and smiling forbearance, had not the said opportunity pre- 
sented itself. It was a temptation not to be resisted. 
And he, the most philanthropical of men, proved himself 
capable of being also the most cruel. 

There, in the choicest quarter of the cemetery, shone the 
white ancestral monuments of the Frisbies. Death, the 
leveller, had not, somehow, levelled them, — proud and 
pretentious even in their tombs. You felt, as you read 
the sculptured record of their names and virtues, that 
even their ashes were better than the ashes of common 
mortals. They rendered sacred not only the still enclosure 
where they lay, but all that beautiful sunny bank ; so that 
nobody else had presumed to be buried near them, but a 
space of many square rods on either side was left still un- 
appropriated, — until now, when, lo ! here comes a black 
funeral, and the corpse of one who had been a slave in his 
day, to profane the soil ! 


152 


FESSENDEN’S. 


IX. 


TWO FUNERALS. 

Nor is this all, alas ! There comes not one funeral pro- 
cession only. The first has scarcely entered the cemetery 
when a second arrives. Side by side the dead of this day 
are to be laid : our old friend the negro, and the lovely 
young lady we have mentioned, — even the fairest of Mr. 
Frisbie’s own children. 

For it is she. The sweetest of the faces Fessenden’s 
saw that stormy night at the window, and yearned to be 
with in the bright room where the fire was, — that dear 
warm face is cold in yonder coffin which the afflicted family 
are attending to the tomb. 

And Frisbie, as we have somewhere said, loved his chil- 
dren. And in the anguish of his bereavement he had not 
heeded the singular and somewhat humiliating fact that 
his daughter had issued from the portal of Time in com- 
pany with one of his most despised tenants, — that, in the 
same hour, almost at the same moment, Death had sum- 
moned them, leading them together, as it were, one with 
his right hand and one with his left, the way of all the 
world. So that here was a surprise for the proud and 
grief-smitten parent. 

" What is all that, Stephen 1 ” he demands, with sudden 
consternation. 

“ It seems to be another funeral, sir. They ’re bury in’ 
somebody next lot to yours.” 

“ Who, who, Stephen h ” 

“I — I ruther guess it’s the old nigger, sir,” says 
Stephen. 

The mighty man is shaken. Wrath and sorrow and 


FESSENDEN’S. 


153 


insulted affection convulse him for a moment. His face 
grows purple, then pale, and he struggles with his neck- 
cloth, which is choking him. He sees the tall form of Gin- 
gerford at the grave, and knows what it is to wish to 
murder a man. Were those two Christian neighbors quite 
alone, in this solitude of the dead, I fear one of them 
would soon be a fit subject for a coroner’s inquest and an 
epitaph. 0 pride and hatred ! with what madness can 
you inspire a mortal man ! 0 Fessenden’s ! bless thy 

stars that thou art not the only fool alive this day, nor 
the greatest ! 

Fessenden’s walked alone to the funeral, talking by him- 
self, and now and then laughing. Gentleman Bill thought 
his conduct indecorous, and reproved him for it. 

“ Gracious ! ” said the lad, “ don’t you see who I ’m talk- 
in’ with % ” 

“ No, sir, — I can’t say I see anybody, sir. ” 

“ No 1 ” exclaimed the astonished youth. “ Why, it ’s 
the old man, goin’ to his own funeral ! ” 

This, you may say, was foolishness ; but, 0, it was inno- 
cent and beautiful foolishness, compared with that of Fris- 
bie and his sympathizers, when they discovered the negro 
burial, and felt that their mourning was too respectable to 
be the near companion of the mourning of those poor 
blacks, and that their beautiful dead was too precious to 
be laid in the earth beside their dead. 

What could be done ? Indignation and sorrow availed 
nothing. The tomb of the lovely was prepared, and it only 
remained to pity the affront to her ashes, as she was com- 
mitted to the chill depths amid silence and choking tears. 
It is done ; and the burial of the old negro is deferentially 
delayed until the more aristocratic rites are ended. 

Gingerford set the example of standing with his hat off 
in the yellow sunshine and wintry air, with his noble head 
7 * 


154 


FESSENDEN’S. 


bowed low, while the last prayer was said at the maiden’s 
sepulture. Then he lifted up his face, radiant ; and the 
flashing and rainbow - spanned torrent of his eloquence 
broke forth. He had reserved his forces for this hour. 
He had not the Williams family and their friends alone 
for an audience, but many who had come to attend the 
young lady’s funeral remained to hear the Judge. It was 
worth their while. Finely as he had discoursed at the hut 
of the negroes, before the corpse was brought out, that 
was scarcely the time, that was certainly not the place, for 
a crowning effort of his genius. But here his larger audi- 
ence, the open air, the blue heavens, the graves around, 
the burial of the young girl side by side with the old 
slave, all contributed to inspire him. Human brotherhood, 
universal love, the stern democracy of death, immortality, 
— these were his theme. Life, incrusted with convention- 
alities ; Death, that strips them all away. This is the 
portal (pointing to the grave) at which the soul drops all 
its false encumbrances, — rank, riches, sorrow, shame. It 
enters naked into eternity. There worldly pride and ar- 
rogance have no place. There false judgment goes out 
like a sick man’s night-lamp, in the morning light of truth. 
In the courts of God only spiritual distinctions prevail. 
That you were a lord in this life will be of no account 
there, where the humblest Christian love is preferred before 
the most brilliant selfishness, — where the master is de- 
graded, and the servant is exalted. And so forth, and so 
forth ; a brief but eloquent address, of which it is to be 
regretted that no report exists. 

Then came the prayer, — for the Judge had a gift that 
way too ; and the tenderness and true feeling with which 
he spoke of the old negro and the wrongs of his race drew 
tears from many eyes. Then a hymn was sung, — those 
who had stayed to sneer joining their voices seriously with 
those of the lowly mourners. 


FESSENDEN’S. 


155 


X. 


REVENGE OF THE FRISBIE FACTION. 

“What did I tell you?” says Gingerford, walking 
familiarly arm in arm with his son James, not long after, 
— a beautiful sight, to friendly village eyes, as perhaps he 
is aware. (Does he not hear in fancy the whispers of 
admiring elderly ladies ? — “What a charming picture of 
father and son ! How fond and proud they are of each 
other ! ” for the Judge, as we know, is human.) “ Who 
ridicules us now? Our good friend Frisbie could not do 
us a real injury ; we have transmuted his base coin into 
gold. Look at these people ” ; and the elegant Gingerford 
touches his hat, smilingly, to one and another. “They 
are all on our side, James.” 

But the sagacious man is for once mistaken. The 
Frisbie faction is still strong in town ; and, while many 
have been won over from it by the Judge’s admirable 
behavior towards his colored neighbors, others of its ad- 
herents, more violent than ever in their animosity towards 
him and them since his neat retort upon Frisbie, are even 
now meditating mischief. 

Not directly against Gingerford, — they know too well 
how the blows of malice recoil from that polished shield 
of his. Their aim is lower; it is levelled at his black 
friends over the way. Frisbie himself, sick enough of his 
own sorry jest, and tired of his tenants, was still too 
proud to molest them further, — and, let us believe, too 
humane. The poor, stricken, humbled parent kept his 
own counsel, and certainly gave no encouragement to the 
leaders of the plot ; perhaps he was not even aware of it. 
But did not Stephen know his master’s secret mind? 


156 


FESSENDEN’S. 


“ Of course he won’t do anything to get the niggers out 
of his house, since he has moved them in it ; but do you 
think he ’s such a fool that he won’t be glad to have us do 
the job, while he knows nothing about it ? ” 

Stephen is animated particularly by his hatred of 
Gentleman Bill ; and he has for a confederate one who is 
moved by a still stronger personal resentment, — the man 
Dorson, Gingerford’s late coachman, whose wrongs are 
burning to be revenged on his successor ; while pure and 
unadulterated prejudice against color inspires the rest of 
the whispering, skulking crew that surround the negro’s 
house this wild March night. 

It is Saturday evening again, and late. The village 
lights are out, or going out, all save one, — this which 
shines through the dingy curtains of the negro’s hut ; for 
these dark-skinned children of the Night are sadly inclined 
to keep late hours. Within you see, seated, in his shirt- 
sleeves, with his legs crossed and his foot resting upon the 
wood-box, Gentleman Bill, taking his ease after his week’s 
w r ork in the shop, and occasionally making a quiet observa- 
tion. At the other side of the stove is Joe, playing at 
checkers with Fessenden’s, who, feeble-minded in many 
things, showed an aptitude for that game. Again the two 
girls are putting away the supper dishes, their mother is 
mending a garment, the old grandmother is nodding over 
her knitting, and Mr. Williams, with spectacles on nose, is 
turning the leaves of the old Bible. 

“ Seems to me the winders in this house rattle more ’n 
they used to be accustomed to,” remarks the gentleman 
of the family as the gusts of wind smite the sashes. “ An- 
tiquated old shell, rather.” 

“What ’s ant-acquainted 1” grins woolly-headed Joe, 
looking up from his game of checkers. “ Any relation to 
uncle-acquainted ? ” 


FESSENDEN’S. 


157 


“ 0 father ! ” says Bill, despairingly, “ a’n’t that child 
ever going to have a suitable bringing up 1 ” 

“What about that child?” says the grandmother, 
jealously, suddenly waking and plying her knitting-needles. 

“ I was speaking of the old house,” replies Bill. “ Loose 
in the jints, since it was moved; hardly a fit residence for 
a respectable, growing family.” 

“Now don’t you say a word ag’inst the old house!” 
retorts the grandmother. “ I ’d as soon you ’d go to 
’busin’ me. It ’s been a home to us ever sence afore you 
was born, and it ’s a good home yit. The Lord has pre- 
sarved it to us, and I trust he ’ll presarve it still, — 
anyways till I ’m ready to move to my long home. Then, 
if you want a better house, I hope you ’ll find it.” 

“ I did n’t mean no disrespect to the venerable tene- 
ment, granny. But you see it ’s really gitting too small ; 
very much deficient in room, ’specially since I brought 
home a permanent boarder on my back,” — with a glance 
at Fessenden’s. 

“ That ’s a mos’ ongrateful remark, William ! We 
should n’t have the ole house at all, if ’t wa’n’t for him. 
Ye brought good luck into it, when ye brought him 
in, an’ it ’s stayed with us ever sence, bless the boy ! 
Don’t ye go to pickin’ no flaws in the Lord’s blessin’s ; if 
ye do they ’ll be took away from us, sure ! ” 

“You quite misapprehend the drift of my observation,” 
says Bill, and gives a sudden start. “ By George ! that 
wa’n’t no winder rattling ! ” 

“Sounded to me like a stone throwed agin the clab- 
boards,” remarks Mr. Williams, mildly anxious, looking 
up from his book. 

The stalwart young black steps quietly to a window, on 
the side of the house struck by the missile, and lifts a 
corner of the curtain. “ Jes’ le’ me ketch any feller up to 


158 


FESSENDEN’S. 


that sort o’ thing, that ’s all S ” quoth he, with a menacing 
laugh. 

He sees darkness without, and nothing more. But un- 
fortunately his head, defined upon the background of the 
lamp-lighted room, presents a tempting mark to his enemy, 
Stephen, at that moment lurking behind a pile of the fam- 
ily stove-wood, a stick of which is in his hand. 

The two checker-players give little heed to the dis- 
turbance j and now suddenly Joe springs from his chair, 
overturning it, and shrieking triumphantly, “ King-row ! 
king-row ! crown him ! ” performs a sort of wild war-dance 
about the room, and sits down again, under his brother’s 
severe reproof. 

“ Keep quiet, can’t ye 1 you young barbarian ! Don’t 
you see I ’m reconnoitrin’ 1 Hush ! ” 

An instant of deep silence followed, then came a crash 
at the window. At the same time fragments of glass 
struck Gentleman Bill’s face and shirt-bosom, and a club, 
— a stick of green stove-wood, in short, — its force broken 
by the sash, fell into the room at his feet. 

Alarm and consternation entered with it : the checker- 
board was overturned ; the girls dropped a dish or two ; 
Bill, brandishing the club, rushed to the door, his father 
calling to him and trying to hold him back. 

“No, sir!” cries the athletic young fellow. “Ahead 
gits cracked for this ! ” 

He flings the door open, and leaps out, to be met by a 
shower of small stove-wood, hurled by assailants shielded 
from sight by the outer darkness, while the light stream- 
ing from within exposes him to view. Perceiving the 
odds against him, the young man hurls his club and 
retreats into the room with blood trickling from a gash 
in his cheek. One stick enters with him, whizzes past 
the elder Williams’s grizzled locks, and strikes the stove- 


FESSENDEN’S. 


159 


pipe with no small clatter, before the door is closed and 
barred. 

“ Guess they thought I did n’t bring in wood enough ! ” 
says Fessenden’s, laying the stick in the box. “But they 
better take care ! ” 

Mrs. Williams and the girls begin to sob and cry. The 
old grandmother hastens to stanch Bill’s wound, saying 
to Joe by the way, “ Under the bed, deary ! You ’ll git 
hurted ! ” Bill pushes her off : “Never mind a little blood ! 
More ’ll flow ’fore this little business is finished ! ” And 
he snatches an axe from the corner. 

“ Be quiet ! they ’re knocking ! ” says mild Mr. Wil- 
liams, laying his hand on his son’s arm. 

“ Let Bill fire the old axe at ’em ! ” gibbers Joe, peeping 
affrighted from beneath the bed. 

“ Just open the door sudden for answer ! ” says Bill, 
holding the weapon ready, his eyes gleaming wickedly. 

“ That won’t do, William. — What do you want out 
there 

The knocking ceases, and a voice replies: “We ’ve come 
to clean you out. Agree to quit this house and this town 
within a week, and it ’s all right ; we give you that time.” 

“I pay Mr. Frisbie rent for this house,” humbly sug- 
gests Mr. Williams. 

“ Can’t help that. We ’ve got tired of niggers in this 
town, and we ’re going to be rid of you.” 

“ But if we agree to stay 1 ” Bill shouts back. 

“ You ’ll have to go. If you stick, some of ye ’ll get 
hurt, and your house ’ll come down,” roars the voice 
outside. 

“ I know that man ! ” says Fessenden’s, recognizing the 
voice. “ He would n’t let your cows in Judge’s yard.” 

“ Dorson ! ” remarks Bill. “ Jest open, father, and he ’ll 
be a head shorter in no time ! ” 


160 


FESSENDEN’S. 


“ Do it, pappy ! ” cries Mrs. Williams, with sudden fire 
blazing through her tears. 

“ It is written, ‘ Thou shalt not kill/ ” replies the pious 
Williams. 

“ Do you promise ? ” demands Dorson. 

“No, I can’t promise that,” says the negro. “We have 
no other house to go to, and we shall try to stay here as 
long as Mr. Frisbie allows us. We mean to be peaceable, 
law-abiding people, and to merit no good man’s ill-will; 
and why should you persecute us in this way 1 ” 

“We have trusted the Lord so fur, and mean to trust* 
him still,” adds the quavering treble of the old woman’s 
earnest voice. 

“ See, then, if the Lord will keep your door from tum- 
bling in ! ” And there is a sound of retreating footsteps. 

“ Why did n’t ye fire the axe, Bill 1 why did n’t ye fire 
the axe^” squeaks Joe, showing the whites of his eyes 
under a corner of the bed-quilt. 

“ Trust the Lord ! trust the Lord ! ” the old woman 
kept saying, with exalted energy. 

“ Trust the Lord ! ” echoed Fessenden’s, in a loud voice, 
seized by one of his strange fits of inspiration. “You 
won’t lose your house ; they say so ! ” 

“ Who says so 1 ” demanded Bill. 

“ The angels ! ” 

“ Go to thunder with your angels ! ” exclaimed the 
impatient young black, irreverently. “ They ’re coming 
again ! Now, father ! ” 

As he spoke the door burst in with a great crash, fol- 
lowed by the but-end of a stick of timber which had been 
used as a battering-ram. As that was precipitately retir- 
ing, axe-wielding Gentleman Bill rushed out after it, but 
came to grief before he could strike a blow ; the muffled 
villains who carried it flung it down at sight of him, and 


FESSENDEN’S. 


161 


the heavy end, striking his shin, fell thence upon his foot. 
The axe dropped from his hand, and he lay howling, when 
Mr. Williams ran to his rescue. 

“ They ’ll kill you, pappy ! ” shrieked Mrs. Williams, 
trying to support the broken door. 

“ I won’t let ’em ; but they may kill me ! ” cried that 
simple fellow, Fessenden’s ; and, running out, he placed 
himself, resolute and erect, between the negroes and their 
assailants. “ Don’t hit them, hit me ! ” he called out, in 
perfect sincerity and earnest self-devotion. 

I do not suppose that even the most depraved of the 
rioters was bad enough to intend the poor innocent lad a 
serious harm. But he was in their way; and in the 
excitement of the moment a billet of hard wood was flung 
at the negroes. Its pointed end struck his temple, and he 
staggered back towards the house, following Mr. Williams, 
who was helping Gentleman Bill across the threshold. 


XI. 

CONSEQUENCES. 

The rioters seemed aware that a grave accident had 
occurred, and to be frightened at their own work. The 
shattered door was closed, and in an instant all was silent 
about the hut, except the wind. And when, a minute 
later, the door was boldly opened again, and Mr. Williams 
appeared, fearless of missiles, calling loudly, “ Help ! 
will somebody bring help, for mercy’s sake ! ” the dispers- 
ing mob, in still greater alarm, skulked off, and made no 
sign. As if they, who had committed a deed of darkness, 
could be expected now to come forward and expose them- 
selves by answering that appeal ! 

K 


162 


FESSENDEN’S. 


Mr. Williams goes back into the hut, but reappears 
presently, and is hurrying into the street, when he sees a 
lantern coming over towards him from the Judge’s gate. 

“That you, Williams?” cries Gingerford, meeting him. 
“ What ’s the matter ? Where are you going ? ” 

“ I was going for you first, then for the doctor.” And 
Williams relates in a few words what has chanced. 

“ I heard the villains ! ” says the J udge, striding to- 
wards the hut. “They shall rue this night, if there is 
law in the land ! ” 

He has regained his self-control when he enters and 
looks upon the pallid face and lifeless form of the simple 
boy lying upon the bed, with the women bending over 
him, trying to bring back to that shattered clay sense and 
breath. 

Williams returns with the doctor, and now excited 
neighbors — for the noise of the riot has got abroad — 
begin to come in ; among them, our friend Frisbie, accom- 
panied by Stephen, looking pale. They find Gingerford, 
with his coat off, chafing one of the hands of the mur- 
dered boy. 

“ Gentlemen,” says the Judge, stepping back to make 
room for the doctor, “you see what has been done !” 

“How did it happen?” falters poor Frisbie, very much 
disturbed. 

“Yes!” exclaims Stephen, with conspicuous innocence, 
“ how did it happen ? ” 

“ It was a perfectly murderous attack ! ” cries Gentle- 
man Bill, nursing his broken shin in the corner. “ They 
had smashed that winder, and the door, — the fiends 
incarnate, — and disfigured my features with a club ; and 
when I rushed out to defend the domicile, they flung a 
big beam at my legs, — crippled me, as you see ; then as 
my father went to pick me up, and the clubs kept coming, 


FESSENDEN’S. 


163 


that boy sacrificed himself ; he rushed between us and 
the cowardly attackers, and got a stick side the head. 
That ’s the history, gentlemen.” 

“ Who were they 1 ” demands the flushed Frisbie. 

“ Ay, ay ! who were they % ” echoes the virtuous Ste- 
phen. 

“ I a’n’t prepared to give evidence on that p’int, 
though one or two of ’em is known,” says Gentleman Bill, 
significantly. 

Frisbie makes a choking effort to speak, and finally 
addresses his much-hated neighbor: “Judge Gingerford, 
you and I have had some political differences, and perhaps 
personal misunderstandings, but about this thing we feel 
alike. No man can abominate such proceedings more 
than I do.” 

“ T am relieved to hear you say it,” replies the Judge ; 
“ and, believing that you speak sincerely, I offer you my 
hand.” 

Frisbie, flustered, could not well refuse this magnani- 
mously proffered token of reconciliation ; and the Judge’s 
shining behavior shed something of its lustre even upon 
him. The spectators were so much affected by this scen^ 
that Stephen immediately turned and offered his hand to 
Gentleman Bill, who wrung it with a sardonic grin. 

“Excuse me, my friends,” said Frisbie, looking very 
apoplectic in the face, “ but I left a sick child at home ; 
I was watching with her when Stephen came to tell me 
there was a disturbance in the village.” 

“I had heard a noise and gone out to the stable, 
thinking it was the horses,” Stephen makes haste to 
explain. 

“Now, if I can do nothing, I will go back to my 
sick child,” adds Frisbie. “What do you think, doc- 
tor 2” 


164 


FESSENDEN’S. 


“ The boy is dead,” replies the doctor, quietly, having 
completed his examination. 

“ He died for us ! ” exclaimed the old negress, bending 
with devoutly clasped hands over the foot of the bed. 
“ He gave up his life for us poor colored folks, when the 
children of the Evil One surrounded us. He was simple 
in his mind ; but he done all a Christian could do. I 
bless the Lord for him, for he was a child of God, and he 
has gone to be an angel with the rest.” 

Then Mrs. Williams and the girls came and wept over 
the pale corpse, and Joe, moved by the contagion of grief, 
sent up a wild wail of woe that filled the hut. 


XII. 

A STRANGER VISITS THE GRAVE. 

Of course there was an inquest, and of course the whole 
thing was duly reported in the newspapers; in conse- 
quence of which a stranger from a neighboring county 
drove into the village one afternoon, and, after making 
some inquiries of persons he met, reined up at the negro’s 
hut. As he declined to alight (for good reasons, appar- 
ently, being a man of such marvellous ponderosity that, 
once out of the buggy, which his breadth of beam com- 
pletely filled, it were a wonder how he could ever get back 
into it again), Mr. Williams, who had just finished his 
dinner, went out to speak with him. 

He had come to get some particulars concerning the 
inquest and the subject of it. 

“About the boy,” said Mr. Williams; “I suppose I can 
tell you as much as anybody; but about the inquest 
you ’d better see the coroner, or Judge Gingerford.” 


FESSENDEN’S. 


165 


“ The inquest did n’t seem to be very satisfactory,” re- 
marked the stranger, with slow, measured words from 
broad, unctuous lips. 

“ They brought in that he come to his death at the 
hands of some person or persons unknown. Some have 
been suspected, but the only one we felt pretty sure of 
has run off, — that was the man Dorson. T was better 
so, I suppose.” 

“ I think justice on the offenders would have been more 
in the interest of religion and good morals,” said the 
stranger, with grave emphasis. “And have you no per- 
sonal resentment 1 ” 

“ What would be the good of that h ” replied Williams. 
“ The feeling in town is so strong ag’inst ’em, I don’t be- 
lieve they ’ll molest us in futur’. And for what they ’ve 
done, I believe they ’ll find punishment enough in their 
own consciences. So we all feel except my son that had 
his leg hurt ; he is pretty hot ag’inst ’em yet, but he ’ll 
feel better as his leg gits well.” 

“ Did the boy have suitable burial 1 ” 

“ Yes, sir, I should say so ; I ’ll go and show you where, 
if you like.” 

“ It might be a satisfaction to see his grave,” remarked 
the stranger; and, with the negro walking beside the 
buggy, he drove over to the new cemetery. 

“This is my lot, sir,” said Williams. “It was given 
me by the Judge when my old gran’ther died. This 
new grave is the one, — next to Mr. Frisbie’s lot. We 
had a regular sermon by a minister, and a fine one it was, 
though he did n’t say no such beautiful words as the 
Judge said over my old gran’ther. But that could n’t 
have been expected; there a’n’t another such a man in 
the world as Judge Gingerford ! He has had his enemies, 
but I believe they’re turning about to be his friends. 


166 


FESSENDEN’S. 


Mr. Frisbie was very much displeased because he gave 
us this lot, but he is getting over it. He has had another 
child very sick, — he buried one here the very day my 
old gran’ther was laid in the ground ; and the Judge has 
been to speak friendly words to him ; and my old mother 
is over there now, nussing the girl, — they found it hard 
to git a good nuss; and, sir, even Mr. Frisbie appears 
very much different towards us now.” 

“ I learn that you behaved in a very Christian manner 
towards this boy. As I have some interest in him, I shall 
wish to reward you for your trouble.” And the fat man 
took out a fat pocket-book. 

“ Excuse me, sir,” said Williams, “but I couldn’t tech 
no pay for what we done for him, no way in the world. 
He was a blessing to us from the time he come into our 
house, and he has left a blessing with us. The angels 
sent him to us, — he always said they did, and I believe 
him.” 

“He had curious notions about the angels,” said the 
stranger, with a peculiar smile. “His friends tried to 
teach him differently, but he was singularly obstinate 
about certain things ; I even — perhaps they were too 
harsh with him, in the way of their duty. Justice is jus- 
tice, and I must insist upon your taking some compensa- 
tion ; this is very slight.” 

He held two or three bills in his hand, and Williams 
could see that one of them bore the figures “ 100,” — more 
money than he had ever possessed. Still it would have 
seemed to him like the price of blood, had he taken it ; 
and reluctantly at last the man put the notes back into 
his pocket. 

“ May I ask, are you a relative of his 1 ” said Williams, 
as they parted at the cemetery gate. 

“0 no ; he has wealthy relatives, though they do not 


FESSENDEN’S. 


167 


care to be publicly known as such ; his mental infirmity 
— you understand.” 

“ Then may I ask if you — ” 

“ I was only employed to take care of him. My name,” 
said the stranger, touching up his horse, “is — Fessen- 
den.” 

Not long after, Mr. Williams had the remains of his 
child taken from the old burying-ground, and laid beside 
the patriarch. Simple tombstones marked the spot, and 
commemorated the old man’s extreme age and early bond- 
age. 

Another tablet, of pure white marble, was erected over 
the grave of the simple boy, bearing the device of a dove, 
and this inscription, — chosen from the old grandmother’s 
words, — 

(HI )ilb of (&ob.” 

Need we say that the hand of Judge Gingerford was in 
all these things 1 

After the outrage upon the Williams family, in the full 
flush of public indignation and sympathy, the sagacious 
man had caused a subscription paper to circulate for their 
benefit. That he should lead off the list with a liberal 
figure was natural, it was characteristic of the superb 
Gingerford ; but that the very next name on the paper, 
pledging an equal sum, should have been Frisbie’s, was 
astonishing to Timberville, — to everybody, in point of 
fact, except the Judge, who had warily chosen his moment, 
and who knew his man. 

Such a beginning insured the success of the paper. And 
yet that success did not account for the fact, that, after 
funereal and lapidary expenses had been paid, Gingerford, 
treasurer of the fund, had still five hundred dollars of it 


168 


FESSENDEN’S. 


left in his hands ! As poor Mr. Williams declared with 
tearful eyes that his folks had no use for so much money, 
what did the Judge do with it but build them a new 
house, — “ really a residence, a mansion,” as Gentleman 
Bill termed it, — upon a lot purchased for the purpose, 
situated not quite in front of the Judge’s, not exactly 
under the Gingerford windows, as fastidious readers will 
be pleased to know. How large a part of all that money 
had passed through the portly pocket-book of the portly 
stranger, and was in fact the origin of the fund which 
had been devised to cover it, Williams, fortunately for his 
peace of mind, never surmised. 

Early in the spring — But no more ! Have n’t we 
•already prolonged our sketch to an intolerable length, 
considering the subject of it 1 ? Not a lover in it! and, 
of course, it is preposterous to think of making a readable 
story without one. Why did n’t we make young Ginger- 
ford in love with — let ’s see — Miss Frfsbie 1 and Miss 
Frisbie’s brother (it would have required but a stroke of 
the pen to give her one) in love with — Creshy Williams 1 
What melodramatic difficulties might have been built upon 
this foundation! And as for Fessenden’s, he should have 
turned out to be the son of either Gingerford or Frisbie ! 
But it is too late now. We acknowledge our fatal mistake. 
Who cares for the fortunes of a miserable negro family ? 
Who cares for a — Fessenden’s 1 


ARCHIBALD BLOSSOM, BACHELOR. 


I. 


HR. BLOSSOM HEARS BAD NEWS. 

M R. BENJAMIN BLOSSOM was guilty of three faults 
which his brother Archy, the bachelor, could not for- 
give : first, having a family ; second, going to California ; 
and, lastly, dying when he got there. 

The news of the lamented Blossom’s decease was brought 
to Archy one morning, like Cleopatra’s asp, with his break- 
fast. The surviving brother, unconscious of the sting pre- 
pared for him, comfortably seated himself to nibble the 
bread of single-blessedness, spread his landlady’s neat white 
napkin on his lap, tucking the corners into the armholes of 
his waistcoat, stirred his coffee, read the morning paper, ate 
three eggs out of the shell with a little ivory scoop, and 
finally broke the seal of the feminine-looking envelope be- 
side his plate. 

“I knew there was something deused disagreeable in 
that letter ! ” said Archy, turning first purple and then 
pale. “ The best I can do, I am always being made a 
victim ! ” 

The epistle was from the mother of Benjamin’s children; 
and in a cramped chirography, and a style full of gram- 
matical errors, italics, and tears, indicating a good deal of 
grief and not much education, it informed the bachelor 
that his sister-in-law was a widdow (with two d’s), and his 
8 


r 


170 ARCHIBALD BLOSSOM, BACHELOR. 

nephews and nieces “ orfens.” The news would have been 
very apt to spoil his breakfast, but for the precaution he 
had taken to open the eggs before he did the letter. 

Archy walked the room with his napkin, and thought of a 
good many things, — poor Ben dying away off there, among 
strangers, and, no doubt, in very improper clothes ; how he 
(the surviving brother) would look in black ; and what was 
his duty respecting Priscilla and her orphans. 

“ There is no other way, as I see,” he mused, wiping his 
forehead with the napkin, “ but to submit, and be a victim ! 
Think of me, Archibald Blossom, suddenly called to be the 
father of four little Blossoms ; and a brother to her whose 
heart is left destitoot-t, double-o, t, toot ! ” groaned Archy, 
holding the letter up to the light. “ Poor woman ! poor 
woman ! no doubt she was too much afflicted to give atten- 
tion to her spelling. A brother to her ! I wonder she 
did n’t say a husband, while she was about it ! ” And Archy 
smiled a grim smile in the glass, mentally contrasting his 
fastidious habits of life with the disagreeable ties and duties 
of paternity. 

To the bachelor’s love of nicety and sleepless solicitude 
for himself was joined an amiable disposition which was for- 
ever getting the other traits into trouble. On the present 
occasion he was perfectly well aware, as we have seen, that 
he was to be made a victim ; nevertheless, even while heap- 
ing reproaches upon the late Benjamin, calling his children 
brats, and cursing the man who first invented widows, he 
resolved to visit his brother’s family, — brushed his wig, col- 
ored his whiskers, packed a carpet-bag, and made other 
preparations for the pious pilgrimage. It was the first 
time he had ever thought of fulfilling the Scriptural injunc- 
tion, “ To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction ” ; 
although it had long been a personal habit of his to keep 
himself, literally, “unspotted from the world.” 


ARCHIBALD BLOSSOM, BACHELOR. 


171 


II. 

A VISIT TO THE WIDOW AND FATHERLESS. 

It was half a day’s journey from Archy’s residence in town 
to the rural locality which he had no doubt was all this 
time resounding with the lamentations of the bereaved 
family. Arrived at the village hotel, he ordered a room 
and supper ; and, after the necessary ablutions and refresh- 
ments, and certain studious moments devoted to his attire, 
he set out, with his immaculate waistcoat and gold-headed 
cane, to walk to the Blossom cottage. 

It was Archy’s first advent in the place ; a chronic dis- 
like of scenes rustic and domestic having hitherto deterred 
him from venturing upon a visit. He was surprised to 
find the little town so charming. It was the close of a 
pleasant J une day ; the sunset was superb, the air cool and 
sweet, the foliage of the sunlit trees thick and refulgent. 

“ Really,” said Archy to himself, snuffing the odor of 
roses and pinks that breathed from somewhere about a 
green-embowered cottage, — “ really, and upon my soul, a 
man might pass an hour or two in this place quite agree- 
ably ! Young man,” — accosting a village youth, in soiled 
shirt-sleeves and patched trousers, who approached, push- 
ing a loaded wheelbarrow before him on the sidewalk, — 
“ can you inform me where Mrs. Blossom lives 1 ” 

“ P’scill Blossom 1 ” said the village youth, setting down 
the wheelbarrow and tucking up his shirt-sleeves. 

“ Mrs. Benjamin Blossom,” replied Archy, with dignity. 

“ That ’s P’scill,” said the village youth, twisting his 
mouth into a queer expression, and eying Archy with a 
slant, shrewd leer. “You ’ve come past. Foller me, and 
I ’ll show ye. Look out for your shins ! ” 


172 


ARCHIBALD BLOSSOM, BACHELOR. 


He spat upon his hands, rubbed them together, and once 
more addressed himself to the wheelbarrow. Archy stepped 
aside and walked behind. The young man turned up to 
the fence that enclosed the green-embowered cottage, from 
about which breathed the delightful odor of pinks and 
roses. 

“Wish you ’d jest open that gate/’ said he, holding the 
wheelbarrow. 

Archy, who was unaccustomed to opening gates for 
people, stood amazed at this audacity. But the young man 
repeating his request, he concluded to take a benevolent 
and humorous view of the matter, and, stepping before 
the wheel, rendered the service. 

“ Clear the track now ! ” And the young man began to 
push. 

“ Hold ! take care ! ” cried Archy, in peril of his legs. 
“ You scoundrel ! ” He flourished his cane. But as the 
wheelbarrow continued to advance, his alternative was 
either to suffer a collision or retreat. Preferring the latter, 
he went backward into the yard. Going backward into the 
yard, he struck his heel against the border of a flower-bed. 
Striking his heel, he tripped, as was natural, and lost his 
balance, being unable to recover which, he made a formid- 
able plunge, falling in the most awkward of all positions. 
His cane flew into the air, his hat into the bushes, and in- 
stantly he found himself deeply seated amidst some of the 
aforesaid odorous pinks and roses. 

“ Hello ! look out ! darnation ! ” ejaculated the youth of 
the wheelbarrow ; “ tumblin’ over them beds ! P’scill ’ll be 
in your hair ! ” Which last allusion prompted the unfortu- 
nate Mr. Blossom to catch at his wig, that useful article 
having found a closer affinity with a rosebush than with 
the head to which it belonged. 

“ Young man ! ” said Archy, regaining his feet and gath- 


ARCHIBALD BLOSSOM, BACHELOR. 


173 


ering up his hat and stick, “ you deserve to be caned 
within an inch of your life ! ” 

“ Do I, though 1 ” and the youth’s shrewd leer brightened 
into an expression of sparkling fun. “ I ha’n’t done noth’n’, 
only showed you where we live.” 

“ Who cares where you live 1 ” retorted Archy, pale and 
agitated, hastily brushing his clothes. “You remorseless 
idiot ! I inquired for Mrs. Blossom’s house.” 

“ Wal, a’n’t I sh owin’ ye 1 This is our house ; I ’m her 
cousin,” said the youth. “ I a’n’t to blame, as I see, for 
your goin’ on to the bed backwards.” 

“ I must always be a victim ! ” growled Archy, using his 
handkerchief for a duster. “Young man, I am Benjamin 
Blossom’s brother, and I wish to see Mrs. Blossom.” 

“ Jimmyneddy ! ” cried the youth, “ be ye, though 1 
Darned if I did n’t think you was the new minister ! I 
would n’t have done it — I mean, I did n’t mean to — lemme 
brush off the dirt ! ” And he fell to using his unwashed 
hands about Archy’s person with a freedom more alarming 
than any quantity of unadulterated dirt. The poor bache- 
lor was endeavoring to defend himself when a young 
woman appeared, coming out of the house, and inquiring 
eagerly what was the trouble. 

A young woman, — she might have been forty ; but she 
was still fresh and good-looking, with a plump figure, hazel 
eyes, a genuine complexion, teeth that were teeth, beautiful 
hair of her own, and a pleasing smile. The smile beamed, 
and at the same time the hazel eyes shone through tears, 
when the youth of the wheelbarrow announced Mr. Blos- 
som’s brother 

“ 0 dear, good brother Archy ! ” she exclaimed, with 
something between a sob and cry of joy. 

“My afflicted sister — ” began Archy, who had com- 
posed a pathetic little speech, appropriate to the occasion, 


174 


ARCHIBALD BLOSSOM, BACHELOR. 


He paused, either from forgetfulness or emotion. As she 
made a movement indicative of falling into his arms, he 
opened them. Seeing them opened, she could do no less 
than fall into them. So the afflicted couple embraced, and 
Mrs. Benjamin Blossom wept upon Mr. Archibald Blossom’s 
shoulder. 

“ To think we should meet, for the first time since my 
marriage, on such an occasion ! ” murmured Mrs. Blossom. 

“You have changed very little since that time,” said 
Archy, gallantly, regarding her at arm’s-length. 

“ Brother Archy,” faltered Priscilla, wiping her eyes, 
“ this is my cousin, Cyrus Drole.” And the bachelor was 
formally introduced to the youth of the wheelbarrow. 

Cyrus offered to shake hands, and Archy, after some 
hesitation, gave him two fingers. 

“ And these,” said Mrs. Blossom, “ are my — his — his 
children ! ” — meaning her late husband’s, not the grinning 
Cyrus’s. She burst into tears, and catching up the youn- 
gest of the lamented Benjamin’s progeny, as they came run- 
ning out of the house, almost smothered it with kisses. 

Archy took out his handkerchief again, wiped first the 
two fingers Cyrus had shaken, and then his eyes. 

“ Poor little dears ! ” he said, much affected. “ How 
could Benjamin ever leave for a moment so — so interest- 
ing a family ! ” 

“Benjie — Phidie — Archy,” Mrs. Blossom called the 
names of the three older children according to their ages, 
“this is your uncle, — your kind, dear uncle, — your father’s 
only brother, and now all the father you have left ! ” More 
sobs, of the choking species. “ Kiss your good uncle ! ” 

“ Dear little ones — yes ! ” said Archy, “ give your uncle 
a' kiss ! (I am going to be a victim, — I know I am ! ” 
he added, in a parenthesis, to himself.) “ There ! there ! 
there ! ” embracing the three children in succession, but 


ARCHIBALD BLOSSOM, BACHELOR. 


175 


invariably allowing the kisses to explode before their faces 
touched his, and then putting them immediately away. He 
was congratulating himself on having done up this little 
business so handsomely, when Mrs. Blossom reminded 
him. 

“ This is the youngest, — the baby, brother Archy ; don’t 
forget the baby ! ” 

“Bless his little heart, no,” said Archy, gayly fencing 
with his forefinger ; “ tut-tut ! cock-a-doodle-do ! Really, 
and upon my soul, what a fine boy it is ! ” 

“ But it ’s a girl,” said Priscilla, hugging the frightened 
little thing to keep it from crying. 

“0, indeed ! my mistake! But it’s all the same till they 
get their baby frocks off,” replied Archy. And the proces- 
sion moved into the house, Cyrus Drole bringing up the rear. 
Priscilla, hastily emptying the large rocking-chair of a cat, 
two kittens, and a doll, offered her brother-in-law a seat. 

“ That ’s my pussy ! ” said Benjie (young Blossom num- 
ber one, set. 7). 

“ My doll ! ” screamed Phidie (number two, set. 5). 

“ Mamma’s chair ! ” cried little Blossom number three ; 
and before Archy the uncle could sit down, Archy the 
nephew had scrambled into it. 

“Archy, my dear,” remonstrated the mother, “get down 
and give his uncle the chair.” 

But Archy, laying hold of the arms with both hands, be- 
gan to rock with all his might, his bright eyes glistening, 
and his curls shaking merrily about his cheeks. There- 
upon the uncle quietly helped himself to another chair, 
which Priscilla hastened to dust with her apron before she 
would suffer him to sit down. 

“ Say, P’scill ! ” cried Cyrus, who had gone into the 
kitchen to wash himself ; and he appeared at the sitting- 
room door, rubbing his hands in a profuse foam of soft- 


176 


ARCHIBALD BLOSSOM, BACHELOR. 


soap and water, — “ say ! wa’n’t it queer I should take 
Uncle Archy for a minister'?” 

“ He calls me uncle too ! ” inwardly groaned the bache- 
lor. 

“ You have n’t been to tea, I suppose 1 ” observed Pris- 
cilla, setting out the table, and putting up a leaf. Archy 
said he had taken tea at the hotel. “ Indeed ! Are you 
sure 1 That was n’t very kind in you, brother Archibald ! ” 

The young widow was reluctantly putting down the leaf, 
with many expressions of regret, when all were startled by 
a sound of shivered glass, and Phidie (abbreviation of So- 
phia) uttered a cry of alarm. 

“ 0 ma ! look at Cilly ! ” (Blossom number four, set. 2, 
named after her mother.) She had got Uncle Archy ’s 
cane, and had tested the virtue of the pretty gold head by 
putting it through a window-pane. 

“ Why, Cilly ! what has she done 1 ? ” exclaimed her mother. 

Cilly began to cry. At that moment young Archy 
rocked over. Another cry. The benevolent bachelor 
sprang to lift up his namesake from beneath the over- 
turned chair, and, stooping, struck his head against Phidie’s 
nose. Third cry added to the chorus. Mrs. Blossom, 
meanwhile, was occupied in running over Benjie, whose 
fingers she had previously pinched by too suddenly drop- 
ping the table-leaf when the alarm was given. At the same 
time Cyrus, with his soapy hands, ran to the rescue, and 
took the cane from the affrighted and screaming Cilly. 

“ What did I tell you, Archibald Blossom 1” said the 
bachelor to himself. “ I knew perfectly well you would be 
a victim ! ” And stepping back upon a kitten’s tail, he 
elicited a squall of pain from the feline proprietress of 
the pinched appendage, and a mew of solicitude from the 
maternal cat. 

For a few minutes the domestic confusion in the cottage 


ARCHIBALD BLOSSOM, BACHELOR. 


177 


surpassed the most dreadful scenes the bachelor’s imagina- 
tion had ever conceived. But the tumult soon passed ; the 
broken glass was picked up; the cane (with the streaks of 
Cyrus’s soapy fingers on it) set away ; Phidie’s nose washed, 
which had bled ; and the Blossoms number three and four 
put to bed, after saying their prayers and kissing, with 
oozy faces, — or, rather, kissing at, — their Uncle Archy. 
Benjie and Phidie were suffered to sit up half an hour 
longer, upon condition that they should behave themselves; 
at the expiration of which time they also said their “Now 
I lay me” and “Our Father” at their mother’s knee, 
greatly to the edification of their uncle, whom they after- 
ward kissed at, with a good-night, on going to bed. Cyrus, 
in the mean time, had gone to spend his evening at the 
village stores and bar-rooms ; and now the widow and the 
surviving brother of the late Benjamin Blossom were left 
alone together. 


III. 

MR. ARCHIBALD AND MRS. BENJAMIN. 

The cottage was quiet ; a single lamp was lighted ; the 
grief-stricken widow took a seat rather near the surviving 
brother. As they discussed the lamentable news the last 
steamer had brought, she drew her chair closer still, allow- 
ing her head, weighed down by affliction, to droop sym- 
pathetically toward his shoulder. Archy was deeply trou- 
bled. 

“ I am more than ever convinced that I shall be a 
victim,” he thought, as he glanced sideways at his com- 
panion ; “ but, really, and upon my soul, there ’s some- 
thing pleasing about her ! ” 

8 * 


L 


178 


ARCHIBALD BLOSSOM, BACHELOR. 


In the abandonment of grief she let her hand drop 
upon his knee. She was too much absorbed by her sor- 
rows to think of removing it. Archy experienced a very 
strange sensation. He had never in his life known any- 
thing to produce precisely such an effect as that hand 
upon his knee ; and he wondered if his companion was 
really aware that it had gone a-visiting. Then Archy suf- 
fered his own hand (in the abandonment of grief) to drop 
near the widow’s. There is something magnetic in hands. 
They attract by laws more subtle than the loadstone’s. 
Two peculiarly charged hands upon the same knee must 
inevitably touch. Archy’s palm lay in the most careless 
manner upon the back of Priscilla’s hand. Gradually his 
fingers tended to encircle hers ; an encouraging move- 
ment on her part, then a nestling together of thrilling 
palms, then an ardent mutual pressure, — and Archy found 
himself in a position which he would have deemed utterly 
impossible an hour ago. With that soft, warm, flexible, elec- 
tric conductor pouring its vital streams into his veins, he 
comprehended, as never before, how men are entrapped into 
matrimony. He saw how his brother (the lamented Benja- 
min) had been entrapped, and forgave him. It was Archy’s 
left hand that clasped Priscilla’s left, she sitting upon his 
right ; and now his other arm (all in the abandonment of 
grief) fell from the top of her chair and lodged near her 
waist. Her right hand met his, — not to remove it, but to 
draw it ever so gently about her. At the same time her 
head, which had been drooping so long, touched his shoul- 
der. Silence, and two deep breaths. Very natural: he 
had lost a brother, she a husband; and this was conso- 
lation. 

“My dear sister,” said Archy, “you must not let — ah 
— circumstances trouble you. I have a little property, — 
enough to keep me comfortable, — and I have put by a lit- 


ARCHIBALD BLOSSOM, BACHELOR. 


179 


tie to — to — provide against such a day as this ; for I 
always felt sure Benjamin’s projects would turn out in 
some such way ; and, you see, you are not to want for any- 
thing, Priscilla — ” 

“ 0 dear, dear Archy ! bless you ! said the widow, 
with so much emotion that tears were drawn right out of 
Archy’s eyes. “ But it is n’t money 1 want ! True, I have 
four children, — they are friendless orphans, — I am poor ; 
but I can work for them with my last breath. It is n’t 
money I want ! but sympathy, — a brother’s love, — some- 
body to talk to that knew him , — to keep my heart from 
breaking while my dear children live ! 0, promise me 

that ! ” She clung to Archy. He knew he was a victim, 
but he also perceived that to be a victim might be sweeter 
than he had deemed. 


IV. 


CYRUS. 

At this interesting moment the gate clanged, a shuf- 
fling of shoes on the stoop-floor followed, and Cyrus Drole 
walked unceremoniously into the room. 

“ I am saved ! ” thought Archy. But it must be con- 
fessed he would have preferred not to be saved quite so 
soon. His chair, as Cyrus entered, was at least a yard and 
a half from the widow’s, and their hands looked perfectly 
innocent of contact. The hero of the wheelbarrow might 
have perceived that he was expected to withdraw from the 
sacred precincts of grief ; but he coolly took a chair and 
sat down, with his hat on. 

“ Everybody is askin’ about Uncle Archy; you’d think 
the President had come to town ! ” said Cyrus, tipping 


180 


ARCHIBALD BLOSSOM, BACHELOR. 


back against the wall, and setting his feet upon the chair- 
round. “But didn’t they all la’f when I told about takin’ 
him for a minister, and runnin’ him on to the beds ! ” And 
Cyrus chuckled under his hat-brim, hugging his elevated 
knees. 

The two votaries of grief heard these ill-timed words in 
appropriate solemn silence. Nobody else appearing inclined 
to talk, Mr. Drole “ improved ” the occasion. He quoted 
popular remarks concerning the surviving Mr. Blossom. 
Elder Spoon’s daughter thought he walked “drea’ful stiff”; 
Miss Brespin, the dressmaker, declared that he winked at 
her as he passed her window. Archy writhed at this sting- 
ing imputation, but contented himself with frowning upon 
Cyrus. 

“Brother Archy don’t want to hear all this, Cyrus,” 
interposed the serious-faced Priscilla. 

“Jeff Jones said he looked like a horned pout with his 
white-bellied jacket on ! ” continued Cyrus. “ Cap’in Fling 
wanted to know if he was an old bach ; an’ when I said he 
was, says he, ‘ I ’ll bet fifty dollars,’ says he, ‘ he ’ll marry 
the widder ! ’ ‘ If he does,’ says Old Cooney, says he, ‘ he 
won’t look so much as if he ’d just walked out of a ban’box 
time he ’s been married a month,’ says he. I did n’t say 
nothin’, but la’ft ! ” 

“ Cyrus Drole ! ” cried the indignant widow, “ if you 
can’t behave yourself, you shall go straight to bed. What 
must Brother Archy think of your impudence ? ” 

“ I guess he ’ll think it ’s natur’ ! ” laughed Cyrus. “ I 
s’posed you would n’t mind, bein’ we ’re all cousins.” 

Archy had arisen. He inquired, in some agitation, for 
his hat and cane. 

“ Why, Brother Archy ! ” said Priscilla, alarmed, “ where 
are you going 1 ” Archy explained that he had engaged 
his lodging at the hotel, where his baggage remained. “ I 


ARCHIBALD BLOSSOM, BACHELOR. 


181 


can’t bear the thought of your going back there to sleep ! ” 
And the widow’s tearful eyes looked up pleadingly. “ Do 
stay with us ! Cyrus shall go for your carpet-bag ! ” 

Archy said something about “ giving trouble.” She re- 
proached him tenderly. It would be a comfort, she as- 
sured him, to know that he was beneath her roof ; and 
it would soothe her loneliness to remember the pathetic 
circumstance after he was gone. 

“ I am a victim ! ” thought Archy ; but he could not 
resist such winning entreaties. Cyrus was despatched for 
the carpet-bag. He was absent not much more than five 
minutes ; and on his return, placing the article of luggage 
on the table, he seated himself, tipped against the wall, 
with his hat on, as before. 

“ Any time you wish to retire, Brother Archy, — ” sug- 
gested the widow’s softeded voice. 

Archy cast a scowling glance at Cyrus (who appeared 
immovable), and replied that he felt the need of rest after 
his long journey. 

“Don’t hurry on my account,” said Cyrus. “I jest 
as lives set up and keep ye comp’ny ! ” 

Unseduced by this generous offer, Archy took his 
carpet-bag and proceeded, under the widow’s guidance, 
to the spare bedroom. It was a neat little chamber, with 
a rag-carpet on the floor, and cheap lithographs in cheap 
frames on the wall. The lamp was placed on the white- 
spread stand, and the carpet-bag on a chair. Archy gave 
the widow his hand. 

“ Good night, sister ! ” Priscilla wept. “ Afflicted one ! ” 
said Archy, drawing her near him. He put down his lips ; 
she put up hers. At that affecting moment a chuckle was 
heard. Both started. 

“Ye ’fraid of muskeeters, Uncle Archy?” said Cyrus, 
putting his head in at the door. 


182 


ARCHIBALD BLOSSOM, BACHELOR. 


Archy had never in his life felt so powerful an impulse 
to fracture somebody’s cervical column. Had there been 
a weapon at hand, Cyrus would have suffered. As it was, 
he advanced with impunity into the room. 

“ ’Cause, ef you be, there ’s some in this room that long ! ” 
he added, measuring off a piece of his hand. “ Ain’t they, 
Facillt” 

“ Cyrus Drole ! there is n’t a mosquito in the house, and 
you know it ! ” exclaimed the widow. “ What do you talk 
so fori” 

“ They ’ve got some over to the tavern bigger yit,” said 
Cyrus, seating himself astride a chair, and resting his 
arms on the back. “ They hitched six on ’em to a hand- 
cart t’other day, and they ripped it all to flinders ! ” 

“ Come, Cyrus,” expostulated the widow, “ you ’ve no 
business here ; brother wants to go to bed.” 

“He won’t mind me ; I ’ll keep him comp’ny till he 
wants to go to sleep. You need n’t stop, if you don’t 
want to ! ” 

Thereupon the widow hastily withdrew, calling upon 
him to follow. Cyrus rocked to and fro, in his reversed 
position, appearing perfectly and entirely at home. Archy 
regarded him sternly. 

“What d’ye haf to pay for them kind o’ boots 1” asked 
Cyrus. “ Pegged or sewed 1 hey 1 ” No reply. “ Psho ! 
what’s the matter 1 You look as though you’d forgot 
suth’n’ ! ” 

“Young man,” said Archy, loftily, “will you have the 
kindness to postpone the entertainment of your personal 
presence and conversation to some remote future period 1 
In other words, will you oblige me by leaving this room 1 ” 

“Don’t feel like talkin’, heyl Wal, I d’n’ know but I 
will, seein’ it ’s you ! ” Cyrus, rising deliberately, knocked 
over his chair, set it up again, and walked slowly to the 


ARCHIBALD BLOSSOM, BACHELOR. 


183 


door. “ I forgot what you said you give for them boots 1 
Oh ! you ’re in a hurry, be ye 1 ” 

Seeing Archy advancing upon him with a somewhat 
ferocious look, he quickened his step, and with a grin of 
insolent good-nature dodged out of the room. 


V. 

A. B. BECOMES A VICTIM. 

Archy shut, the door, and placed two chairs against it, 
— there being no lock, — pulled off the said boots, hung 
his wig on the bedpost, and in due time retiring, thought 
of the widow, and called himself a victim, until he fell 
asleep ; when he dreamed that he was wedded to a spectre, 
in soiled shirt-sleeves and patched trousers, and had nine 
children, all of whom were born with little wheelbarrows 
in their hands. 

He was awakened by shouts of childish laughter. He 
thought of his dream, rubbed his eyes, recognized his wig 
on the bedpost, and remembered where he was. The 
laughter proceeded from an adjoining room, where the 
little Blossoms slept. Archy took his watch from beneath 
the pillow, and discovered that he had been robbed of his 
rest three hours earlier than his usual time for rising. 

“ I ’m always being a victim ! ” he said, with a yawn. 
“ But I suppose it ’s the custom in the country to get up 
at five. It will be such a novelty, I ’ll try it for once.” 

So Archy arose, dressed, put on his hat, found his 
gold-headed cane (with the marks of Cyrus’s soapy fingers 
on it), and went out to walk. There was a freshness and 
beauty in natur e which afforded him an agreeable surprise. 


184 


ARCHIBALD BLOSSOM, BACHELOR. 


“ Really, and upon my soul,” he said, “ I had quite 
forgotten that mornings in the country were so fine ! One 
might enjoy an experience of this kind once or twice a 
year very well indeed.” 

Priscilla was occupied in dressing the children when 
he went out. On his return she was preparing breakfast. 
He was curious to see how she would look by daylight ; 
and he was conscious of a slight agitation as he entered 
the room. Her occupation, together with the heat of the 
kitchen stove, had given her a beautiful color ; and the 
tear and smile with which she greeted him completed the 
charm. Thus the day began. Archy, who had intended 
to return on the first train to town, stayed until the after- 
noon. He then found it impossible to turn a deaf ear to 
the widow’s entreaties, who urged him to remain another 
night beneath her roof. He delayed his departure an- 
other day, and still another night ; and ended by spending 
a week with the widow, Cyrus, and the children, — a week 
whose history would fill a volume. What we have not 
space to detail here the reader’s imagination — it must be 
vivid — will supply. 

At last the bachelor returned to town. He had long 
wished to go, and wished not to go. His experiences had 
been both sweet and terrible ; and to depart was as excru- 
ciating as to remain. In tearing himself away he left 
behind a lacerated heart, which Mrs. Priscilla Blossom 
retained, and in return for which she sent him letters full 
of affection and bad spelling. It is singular how soon 
a tender interest in persons invests even their faults with 
a certain charm. Not a month had elapsed before Archy 
had learned to love those innocent little errors of orthog- 
raphy and construction as dearly as if the i's she neg- 
lected to dot were the very eyes which he had so often 
seen weep and smile. 


ARCHIBALD BLOSSOM, BACHELOR. 


185 


“ Really, and upon my soul,” said Archy, one morning, 
after kissing her letter at least twice for every precious 
error it contained, “ she is a delightful creature ; and, by 
Jove, I ’d marry her — I would, truly — if — if it wasn’t 
for being a victim ! ” 

A strange unrest — to use a perfectly unhackneyed 
expression — agitated his once placid bosom. Appetite 
and flesh forsook him; his landlady observed that her 
bountiful repasts no longer filled him; his tailor, that 
he no longer filled his clothes. His friends shook their 
heads and said, “The Blossom has been nipped by un- 
timely frost ! ” 

At length, yielding to destiny, he again disappeared 
mysteriously from town. It is supposed that he visited 
Priscilla. He was absent a week. He returned, bearing 
a still larger burden of unrest than he had carried away. 
In short — to sum up the tragical result in one word — • 
Archy was a victim, and he knew it ! 

How it all happened, poor Archy could never tell ; and 
if he could not, how can his biographer 1 As early as the 
middle of October he had written to Priscilla irrevocable 
words, ordered a wedding suit of his tailor, bought a new 
wig, and purchased a trunkful of presents for his future 
wife and children. The 11th of November was fixed 
for the fatal event. On the night of the 9th he slept 
not at all, but filled the hours with wakefulness and sighs. 
“ 0 Benjamin,” he said, “ if you had only lived ! I wish 
I had never gone up there ! But it is too late to retract ! 
It would break poor dear Priscilla’s heart ! I am quite 
sure she would die of grief! I must go through with it 
now, — I see no other way ! ” Mrs. Brown wondered what 
made her lodger groan so in his sleep. 

On the other hand, Archy endeavored to console him- 
self by reasoning thus : “ It was n’t in human nature to 


186 


ARCHIBALD BLOSSOM, BACHELOR. 


resist, — she is such a charming woman ! Besides, I was 
only doing my duty. I should have the family to support 
any way. I can keep them in the country, and spend as 
much time in town as I choose. I shall probably spend 
all my time in town, with the exception of now and then 
a few days in summer. Though really, and upon my soul, 
if it was n’t for Cyrus and the children I think I could be 
very happy with Priscilla.” 

He sank into a half-conscious state, and fancied himself 
pursuing a wild, sweet, dangerous road, with two figures 
whirling in a dance before him, one beautiful and bright, 
but nearly enveloped in the other’s black, voluminous 
robes. One was Happiness, the other Misery ; and so 
they led him on, until the former quite disappeared, and 
the latter, grim, inexorable, whirled alone. He awoke 
with a start just as the hideous creature reached forth a 
skeleton hand to claim him as a partner ; and once more 
Mrs. Brown wondered what made her lodger groan in 
his sleep. 

Archy was expected on the afternoon of the 10th, and 
Cyrus was at the railroad station to meet him when the 
train came in. The surviving brother felt not only like a 
victim, but also very much like a culprit, when he stepped 
from the cars, a spectacle to the group of loungers. 

“ Haryunclarchy 'l ” (that is, “ How are you, Uncle 
Archy 1 ”) cried Cyrus, familiarly advancing to shake 
hands. “ Got along, have ye 1 P’scill ’s been drea’ful 
’fraid you would n’t come.” A broad grin from Mr. Drole. 
Laughter and significant looks from the crowd. Embar- 
rassment on the part of Mr. Blossom. 

“ Where ’s the carriage 1 ” whispered the future bride- 
groom, who, anticipating this scene, had directed that a 
decent conveyance should be in waiting for him on his 
arrival. 


ARCHIBALD BLOSSOM, BACHELOR. 


187 


“ Could n’t git no kind of a one,” said Cyrus, in a loud 
tone of voice. “ Jinkins ’s usin’ hisn ; Alvord’s hoss ’s lame ; 
Hillick, that keeps the tavern, had let hisn; I told ’em 
you was cornin’, and I did n’t know what I should do ; but 
not a darned thing in the shape of a carriage could I scare 
up. So I concluded you could walk over to the house, — 
guess you ha’n’t quite forgot the way ; and I ’ve brought 
my wheelbarrer for your trunks.” 

“ Always a victim ! ” muttered Archy, red and perspir- 
ing, perhaps at the recollection of his first adventure with 
the wheelbarrow. He would have given worlds — as the 
romance writers say — had he never set foot in the vil- 
lage. But retrogression was now impossible. He hastily 
pointed out his baggage with his gold-headed cane, and 
walked up the street. He had not proceeded twenty 
yards when Cyrus came after him, running his wheel- 
barrow on the walk, and shouting to the retiring loungers 
to “clear the track.” He pushed his load of trunks to 
Archy’s heels, and there he kept it, occasionally grazing 
his calves with the wheel, until the exasperated bride- 
groom stepped aside and stopped. 

“Go on ! ” he said, hoarsely. 

“ Never mind ; I a’n’t pa’tic’lar ! ” replied Cyrus, set- 
ting the wheelbarrow down, and spitting on his hands. 
“ I jest as lives you ’d go ahead. Whew ! makes me 
blow ! ” 

Archy raised his cane, but forebore exercising it upon 
the young gentleman’s back (as justice seemed to require) 
in consequence of the publicity of the scene. He walked 
on. The wheelbarrow followed, again at his heels. And 
thus the bridegroom traversed the village, the head of a 
procession w T hich caused a general expansion of risible 
muscles and a compression of noses upon window-panes 
as it passed. 


188 


ARCHIBALD BLOSSOM, BACHELOR. 


“ By the furies ! ” thought Archy, “ I can’t go through 
with it ! I ’ll put a stop to the insane proceeding at 
once ! I ’ll make some excuse ; I ’ll say I ’ve heard from 
California and Benjamin is n’t dead. That would n’t do, 
though ; Priscilla ’s had a letter from the friend who 
received his parting breath. I ’ll tell her — I ’ll tell her 
I ’ve got another wife. Then she ’ll reproach me, and 
what shall I say 1 Say I thought my wife was dead, but 
she ’s turned up again ! That won’t do, though, — I 
can’t lie.” 

“ Look out for yer legs ! ” cried Cyrus. They had 
passed the gate. Archy was met by Mrs. Blossom and 
four little Blossoms, soon to be all his own. Priscilla 
clung to his neck, Benjie to his hand, Phidie to his coat- 
tails, leaving the lesser Blossoms each a leg. 

“ I am doomed ! ” thought Archy. He assumed a gay- 
ety, though he felt it not ; opened his heart and his trunk ; 
distributed presents; received a good many more thanks 
and kisses than he wanted ; withdrew to the solitude of 
his chamber; conferred with Priscilla, who followed him 
thither, and whom he found, after all his doubts and de- 
spair, to be the dearest and best of women. 

He came out brighter than he had gone in ; taking his 
seat at the tea-table with Blossoms three and four on each 
side and Priscilla opposite. The children had quarrelled 
to sit next their uncle, and that rare indulgence had been 
granted to the youngest two. Little Archy was barefoot, 
and he persisted in rubbing his toes against big Archy’s 
trousers. Little Cilly (Blossom number four) sprinkled 
him with crumbs, buttered his coat-sleeve, and tipped 
over his teacup. Archy (the uncle) was beginning to 
have very much the air of a parent. 

The presents had so much excited the children that the 
house that evening was a perfect little Babel. “ And this 


ARCHIBALD BLOSSOM, BACHELOR. 


189 


is the family I am going to marry ! ” groaned poor Archy. 
Cyrus was practising upon a new fiddle, in the kitchen, 
and nothing could silence his horrible discords. The 
domestic — a recent addition to Mrs. Blossom’s establish- 
ment — let fall a pile of dishes, deluging the threshold 
with fragments. Benjie upset the table with a lamp and 
pitcher, which saturated the carpet with oil and water. 
Phidie and Archy quarrelled, and cried an hour after they 
had gone to bed. Number four was sick, in consequence 
of eating too much of Uncle Archy ’s candy, and had to 
be doctored. Priscilla was harassed and — shall we con- 
fess it 1 — cross. Add to the picture the melancholy col- 
oring of the season, — imagine the dreary whistling of the 
November wind, and the rattling of dry leaves and naked 
boughs, — and you have some notion of a nice, comfort- 
loving old bachelor’s reasons for homesickness. 

Archy retired to his room. “ I can’t go through with 
it ! It ’s no use ! I ’ll break it to Priscilla — gradually — 
but I ’m resolved to do it ! Suppose I make believe 
I ’m insane, and tear things ? Insane ! I ’ve been insane ! 
0 Benjamin — ” 

Rap, rap ! gently, at the door. “ There she is ! ” said 
Archy. “Now, Blossom, be a man!” He opened; Pris- 
cilla entered. She observed his excited mien with a look 
of alarm. 

“ Dear Archy ! what is the matter 1 ” 

What a wonderful influence there is in woman’s eyes, a 
ripe lip reaching up to you, and an arm about your neck ! 
Archy was afraid he was going to be shaken. 

“ Priscilla ! ” he said, with a tragic air, “ I ’ve had a 
horrid thought ! Suppose — suppose Benjamin should 
still be alive ! and should come home ! and find me — me 
— a usurper of his happiness ! ” 

“ 0 Archy ! ” articulated Priscilla, with strong symptoms 
of fainting, “ spare me ! spare me ! ” 


190 


ARCHIBALD BLOSSOM, BACHELOR. 


“ Of course it is n’t reasonable to suppose such a thing, 

— but,” stammered Archy, “ is n’t our marriage hasty, 

— prematurel Not six months after the news of his 
death, — though, to be sure, he had then been dead four 
months, and that makes ten. But would n’t it, after all, 
be wise to postpone our bliss, — say till spring 1 ” 

“If you leave me,” said Priscilla, “ I shall die ! ” She 
closed her eyes, drooping tremulously in his arms; and 
the scene would have been very romantic indeed but for 
the plumpness of her figure and the laws of gravitation, 
which united in compelling him to ease her down upon 
a chair. “ But go ! ” she added, “ go ! you do not love me ! ” 
“ Beally, and upon my soul, I do ! ” vowed Archy, 
greatly moved. “ Priscilla, I adore you ! ” 

“ Then don’t — don’t break my heart ! ” 

His resolution was melted ; he saw that either Priscilla 
or himself must be a victim. “ I ’ll be one myself,” he 
thought ; “I’m used to it ! ” And he said no more of 
postponing their conjugal felicity. 

We read of prisoners sleeping soundly on the eve of 
their execution. So Archy slept that night. The wed' 
ding was appointed for the next morning. The bride- 
groom awoke at half past six. It was cold and rainy. He 
looked out upon the dismallest scene, — dark and dreary 
hills, a deserted street, dripping and shivering trees, dead 
leaves rotting upon the ground. 

“I have brought my razor with me,” said Archy; 
“really, and upon my soul, I think the best thing I can 
do is to cut off the wretched thread of my existence, 
just under the chin ! ” 

Already the children were laughing and screaming in 
the next room, and Cyrus’s fiddle squeaked in the kitchen. 
Archy got up, took his razor, deliberately honed it, uncov- 
ered his throat, and — with a firm hand — shaved himself. 


AKCHIBALD BLOSSOM, BACHELOK. 


191 


VI. 


THE WEDDING DAY, AND WHAT FOLLOWED. 

The marriage ceremony . was to take place at nine 
o’clock, without display; only the clergyman and two 
other witnesses were to be present, and the happy pair 
were to take the cars at ten for a little journey. Two 
bridesmaids came in the rain, at eight o’clock, to dress the 
bride. She had already put upon the children their neat- 
est attire, charging them to remain in the house, and keep 
themselves dry and clean. The arrival of the clergyman 
was prompt. Nine o’clock struck, — a knell to Archy’s 
heart. At the fatal moment he appeared ; he was hand- 
somely dressed ; he was pale, but firm. No martyr ever 
approached the stake with greater fortitude than he dis- 
played on standing up beside Priscilla, in the little parlor, 
with the clergyman facing them and the witnesses waiting. 

At this critical moment, Cyrus, who had gone to secure 
a conveyance for the wedding party, rushed into the room. 

“ You, sir,” said the clergyman, addressing Archy, “ sol- 
emnly promise to take this woman — ” 

“ Guess you better wait half a jiffy ! ” cried Cyrus, flirt- 
ing his wet cap. 

“ To be your lawful wife,” added the clergyman. 

“Somebody else to come,” added Cyrus; “he’s ’most 
here ; I run ahead to tell ye to stop.” 

“ Hush, Cyrus ! ” whispered the bride. 

“ To love, honor, and obey,” said the clergyman, grow- 
ing confused, “ until death do you part — ” 

“ He ’d jest come in on the cars,” interpolated Cyrus. 

“Promise,” said the clergyman to Archy, who stood 
staring. 


192 


ARCHIBALD BLOSSOM, BACHELOR. 


“ To obey 1 ” faltered Archy. 

“ Did I say obey 1 No matter ; it ’s a mere form — ” 

“ I guess he ’s from Caleforny ! ” cried Cyrus ; “ meb- 
by ’s he ’s got news.” 

“ From California ! ” uttered Archy, with a gleam of 
hope. “Wait; what does the fellow mean? Who — where 
is this man 1 ” 

“ I d’n’ know ; I never saw him afore ; but here he 
comes ! ” said Cyrus. The rascal grinned. Priscilla looked 
wild and distressed. Archy believed it was one of Cyrus’s 
miserable jokes, but resolved to make the most of it. 

“Shall I proceed!” inquired the clergyman, who had 
quite forgotten where he left off. The gate had previously 
clanged ; doors had been opened ; and now, to the aston- 
ishment of all, a stranger put his head into the room. 
He wore a Spanish sombrero, a shaggy coat, and an im- 
mense red beard. As all turned to look at him, he ad- 
vanced into the room. 

“ Stranger ! ” cried the excited Archy, “ who — how — 
why this interruption 1 ” 

“What is going on!” asked the Californian, in a sup- 
pressed voice. 

“Nothing — only — getting married a little,” replied 
Archy, excited more and more. “You are welcome, sir, 
welcome ! but if you have no business — ” 

“ I have business ! ” The intruder removed his wet 
sombrero. “ Priscilla ! Archibald ! ” 

“Benjamin !” ejaculated Archy, springing forward upon 
the clergyman’s corns. 

“ My husband ! ” burst from the lips of the bride ; and 
she threw up her arms, swooning in the traveller’s damp 
embrace. Archy, quite beside himself, ran over the chil- 
dren, and flung his arms frantically about the reunited 
pair. 


ARCHIBALD BLOSSOM, BACHELOR. 


193 


“I be darned,” said Cyrus, flinging bis cap into the 
comer, “if ’t a’ n’t Ben Blossom come to life agin ! ” 

“Just stand off,” cried Benjamin, sternly, “till we have 
this matter a little better understood.” 

“ I don’t object,” replied Archy, brushing himself, “ for, 
really, and upon my soul, you are very wet ! ” 

Priscilla was restored to consciousness (which, if the 
truth must be confessed, she had not lost at all), expla- 
nations were made, and the husband’s ire appeased. He, 
on his part, maintained that he had not been dead at all ; 
that the treacherous friend who reported him so had in- 
deed deserted him when he was in an extremely feeble 
condition at the mines, leaving him to perish alone, of 
sickness and want, in the dismal rainy season ; that he 
(Mr. Blossom) had lived, so to speak, out of spite, finding 
shelter in a squatter’s hut, digging a little for gold, re- 
turning to the seaboard, crossing the Isthmus, and finally 
reaching home (with less than half the money he had car- 
ried away) sooner than any letter, mailed at the earliest 
opportunity, could have arrived. He seemed rejoiced to* 
get back again; kissed the children; shook hands with 
the neighbors ; and, finally, supporting his wife upon one 
arm, while he gave Archy a fraternal embrace with the 
other, frankly forgave them the little matrimonial proceed- 
ing we have described. 

The truth is, Priscilla had expressed her joy at his re- 
turn with a spontaneity and emphasis which left no doubt 
of her sincerity. Archy felt one pang of jealousy at this ; 
but it was evident enough that his satisfaction at seeing 
Benjamin was unfeigned. 

“We are brother and sister again now, Archy?” said 
Priscilla, offering him her hand. 

“We are nothing else, I am happy to say!” replied 
Archy, overflowing with good humor. 


194 


ARCHIBALD BLOSSOM, BACHELOR. 


“ I must beg your pardon, Archy,” said Ben, “ for tak- 
ing away your bride.” 

“ Really, and upon my soul,” cried Archy, magnani- 
mously, “I relinquish her — under the circumstances — 
with joy ! Take back your family, Ben ! Here are the 
children, good as new. I give ’em up without a murmur. 
Heaven forbid that I should wish to rob my brother of 
his treasures ! ” Archy’ s self-denial was beautiful. 

“ S’pos’n’ — s’pos’n’,” giggled Cyrus, “ he had n’t come 
till to-morrer, an’ found there ’d been a weddin’ ! an’ no- 
body but me an’ the children left to hum ! ” 

This ill-timed speech proved very unpopular, and Cyrus 
was hustled out of the room. The wedding having failed 
to take place, there was no wedding tour. 

Archy remained, and made a visit at his brother’s ; ex- 
periencing unaccountable sensations upon witnessing the 
unbounded happiness of Priscilla. How she could so easily 
give up a well-dressed gentleman like himself (after all 
her professions, too !) and show such preference for a 
'rough, bearded, unkempt, half-savage Californian, puzzled 
his philosophy. The sight became unendurable. So that 
afternoon he packed up his luggage and took leave of the 
happy family, turning a deaf ear to all their entreaties, 
and setting out, under painful circumstances and a dilapi- 
dated umbrella, to walk to the cars. Cyrus accompanied 
him, transporting his trunks upon the celebrated wheel- 
barrow. At the station Mr. Drole brought Archy the 
checks for his baggage, and gave him his good-by, together 
with a little tribute of sympathy. 

“ I swanny,” said Cyrus, “ ’t was too bad anyhow you 
can fix it ! But I would n’t give up so ; mebby you ’ll 
have better luck next time.” 

“ Always a victim ! ” muttered Archy, taking his seat in 
the cars. Cyrus got upon his wheelbarrow, and whistled 


ARCHIBALD BLOSSOM, BACHELOR. 


195 


u Try, try again ! ” playing an imaginary fiddle over his 
arm. The bachelor (still a bachelor) thanked Heaven 
when the cars started, and so returned to his elegant 
single lodgings in town. 

But he was no longer the cheerful, contented bachelor 
of other times. An affectionate letter from Mrs. Blossom, 
in which she hoped he would find another widdow (with 
two cTs), and be hapy (with one p), served only to keep 
alive the fires that had been kindled in his once cool 
breast. He began to seek female society ; grew studious 
of fair faces ; and, to the astonishment of his friends, 
within a year both Priscilla’s wish and Cyrus’s prediction 
touching better luck were realized. Archy had found an- 
other widow ; who, although perhaps not quite so charm- 
ing a creature as she who had first aroused him from 
apathetic celibacy, proved, nevertheless, quite as sincere a 
woman, as true a wife, and as devoted a mother of her 
little Blossoms. They occupy a handsome little cottage a 
few miles out of town ; where the late bachelor, now the 
blessed husband ar d father, finds wedded life so entirely 
to his liking, that he often assures Mrs. Blossom that really, 
and upon his soul, the most fortunate day of his life was 
when she made him a victim. 


insr THE ICE. 


I. 


WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN A GOLDEN WEDDING. 

LD lady Dracutt, bent with years and trouble, in 



V_y black cloak and hood, walked home from meeting, 
with slow steps, leaning on her cane. Old man Dracutt 
followed her from the porch, took the opposite side of the 
street, passed her on the way, opened the gate before her, 
and let it slam back, almost in her face, as she came up. 

This little scene, or something like it, happened nearly 
every Sunday in their lives, and the observant world 
was getting used to it. Elderly people, watching it now 
for twenty years or more, had learned to look on and make 
no other comment than, “Well, it’s just like old man 
Dracutt ” (or old lady Dracutt, as the case might be) ; 
“ they ’re crotchety, and what ’s the use of talking 1 ” 

Not so the younger portion of the community, repre- 
sented on this occasion by Miss Emma Welford, who, pass- 
ing with her little flock of brothers and sisters, — just as the 
old ploughshare, sagging on its short chain fastened to a 
stake, jerked the gate violently together again, — said com- 
passionately, “ Why could n’t he have had the kindness to 
hold it open till she had gone through 1 ” While even the 
hard-featured ploughshare seemed, in her pure eyes, to look 
ashamed of its part in the transaction. 

Old man Dracutt, not bent at all by his troubles (he ap- 


IN THE ICE. 


197 


peared to bear the burden of life on his head, and to have 
been crushed together by it considerably in the jaws and 
shoulders, getting thereby that stubborn build of body 
and set expression of face), — old man Dracutt trudged on, 
and disappeared in the lonely old house, while his wife was 
still feebly fumbling with the gate. Ah me ! how little we 
know what the effect of a casual kind look or word of ours 
may be sometimes 1 Old lady Dracutt took hold of the 
post instead of the gate, and tried to pull it open that 
way, — very absurdly, to be sure, but you would hardly 
have laughed at her if you had seen the cause. The poor 
old creature was blind with tears. The great sorrow of 
her life had never given her a moist eye ; she was proud, 
and strong, and obstinate to endure misery and wrong; 
that tough, dry stock unkindness could bend and wither, 
but not soften or break ; and yet a compassionating glance 
out of a young girl’s eyes, the pitying tones of a sweet 
voice, could melt her in an instant. 

She got the gate open soon, with Emma’s help, (“ Thank 
you, dear child,” said she,) and entered the house, where 
she found her husband settling down in his low, square, 
straight-backed, old oak arm-chair, by the kitchen stove. 
A newspaper rustled on his trembling knees, while he 
took from a black leathern case a pair of steel-bowed spec- 
tacles, and set them astride his nose, which also appeared 
to have been crushed a little, and pushed well down over 
his broad mouth and chin by the aforesaid burden. 

She put away her cloak and hood in a dark closet (from 
which they seldom emerged, except for Sundays and funer- 
als, when they came out saturated with gloom, and almost 
conscious, it seemed, of the solemn use they served), and 
presently sat down in her chair (neither had ever, probably, 
for years, sat in the other’s chair), with an ancient, sallow- 
leaved, well-worn Bible on her lap. Both clad in rusty 


198 


IN THE ICE. 


black ; he so compressed and grim, and she so crooked 
and withered ; he with bald crown shining in the light, 
over shaggy gray ear-locks ; she with iron-gray hair (once 
black tresses) hidden under her cap of yellow lace, — 
there they sat, and warmed their bodies, if not their 
hearts, by the stove between them ; neither ever looking 
at the other, nor ever speaking more than if each had 
been alone. 

And each was alone ; for what is bodily presence where 
souls are estranged 1 This was the anniversary of their 
marriage ; did they think of it 1 For half a century they 
had lived together, and to-day they might have celebrated 
their golden wedding. 

Fifty years ago this December evening, full of youth 
and hope and love, they joined their hands, with trust and 
solemn vows, and began the journey of life, which looked 
so beautiful before them. The storm and rainbow of a 
real little romance had given interest to their courtship 
and marriage. Jonathan had been off teaching school 
somewhere, and on his return had found his darling little 
Jane engaged to be married. They had always been 
attached to each other from their early childhood, when 
they played little husband and wife, and kept house to- 
gether, with clam-shells for dishes, and acorns for cups and 
saucers, under a board, laid across a comer of the garden 
fence, for a house. Growing bashful as they grew older, 
that sweet play ceased ; but at school they dressed and 
behaved each for the eyes of the other, and were always 
the best of friends, except that their frequent causeless 
quarrels showed that there was something warmer, per- 
haps, than friendship in their attachment. He was stern, 
exacting, and reticent; she was pert and wayward and 
pouting ; and so it happened that they never came to a 
perfect understanding about the future, until he returned 


IN THE ICE. 


199 


home, and found her just going to marry her big cousin 
Jim. Ah ! then what a time they had of it ! what sleep- 
less nights, what haggard days, what torments of passion 
and despair ! He learned, when about to lose her forever, 
that he could not possibly live without her;. that the 
sight of the sky and the earth would not be endurable to 
him for a day, when all hope of her was gone. And being 
a fellow of tremendous will when aroused, you may be 
sure he did not sit down and sulk over his sorrow. Be- 
coming suddenly convinced that it was a terrible sin for 
cousins to intermarry, — though he had seen cousins do so 
before, and had not thought of the sin at all (a personal 
interest in such questions sometimes makes a man awfully 
moral in his feelings all at once), — he determined to save 
her from its commission, and himself, at the same time, 
from life-long misery ; and set to work, in that matter of 
life and death, with characteristic energy. And she — 
why, she had never discovered he cared so much for her ; 
why had n’t he told her so before it was too late 1 or why 
did he make her wretched by telling her now 1 In short, 
the more selfish lover swept everything before him ; and 
the more generous one said, “If you really prefer him 
to me, Jane, I don’t wish to hold you ; I give you up.” 
Even having the good grace to be present, a cheerful 
guest, at that famous wedding. 

The old man’s newspaper slipped from his hand, the old 
lady’s dim eyes wandered from the broad Bible page to the 
stove-hearth, and there they sat and mused, while the dull 
December evening darkened around them. One could 
almost hope, out of pity for them, that they did not think 
of those earlier days. How could they bear to think of 
them 1 Dear child, whose bright eyes are now following 
these lines, when the summer of your life has burned out, 
and hope after hope has faded on the cold hearth of old 


200 


IN THE ICE. 


age, can you bear, think you, to sit, in the long winter 
twilight, looking at the ashes ? 0 the ashes, the ashes ! 

What* a story of bounding sap, and green leaves, and 
boughs waving in sun and breeze, they might tell, if they 
had language ! This is the tragedy of life, with the slow, 
black, silent curtain descending upon the scene. 

It is all the more a tragedy when the actors feel, as these 
two must have felt, that they are the authors of their own 
unhappiness. If Jonathan and Jane had been as humble 
as they were proud, if they had treated each other ten- 
derly, using love and forbearance toward each other, all 
their days, this desolation could never have come upon them. 
Destiny is a tree that grows from seeds in our own hearts. 

The first few years of their married life had been happy ; 
but family cares increased, while their patience under 
them did not increase. What trifles they allowed to vex 
them ! — trifles, surely, when compared with the greatness 
and glory of love. They could better have afforded to lose 
everything else than to lose this, if they had only known 
it ! They had the New England vice of excessive industry. 
Happiness they buried in hard work. They saved the 
pennies of life, and lost its jewel. The bitter and cruel 
things they could say to each other, after a while, must 
have amazed and shamed even themselves when they 
paused to reflect. I don’t know which was most to blame, 
but it was she who said to him, in the midst of a violent 
altercation (this was when they had children grown up 
and married), “Jonathan Dracutt, I wish you would never 
speak to me again as long as you live ! ” 

He started back, looked at her for a moment in silence, 
then turned away. 

“ Tell her I take her at her word,” said he to their 
daughter Elizabeth ; “ but she must never speak to 
me !” 


IN THE ICE. 


201 


“ I never will,” said Jane. 

That was twelve years ago, and they had not spoken to 
each other since. 

Nobody, not even themselves, though they were quite 
in earnest at the time, could have expected that their 
unnatural silence would last so long. Children and friends 
remonstrated, but in vain. 

“ She has told me never to speak to her, and, unless 
she takes back that word, I shall abide by it,” said Jona- 
than. 

“ I ’ll take it back when he asks my forgiveness for what 
provoked me to it, — he was so unjust ! ” said Jane ; which, 
of course, he would never do. 

He ask forgiveness ! Not even if he knew he was 
wrong. 

“ Then it is just as well,” said she. 

“Yes,” he replied, through an interpreter, “there is 
more peace in the house, now her tongue is quiet.” 

And this was he who had once believed that life would 
not be, in any degree, tolerable to him without her. 

Pride and resentment kept both from speaking at first, 
and this reserve became, in the course of time, a settled 
habit. It gave rise, necessarily, to many inconveniences, 
and sometimes to a ludicrous situation. If a pedler 
called and found them alone, he was sure to be amazed 
and puzzled to hear them communicate with each other 
through himself : “ Ask him for some money,” “Tell her 
to git ye some dinner ” ; and to go away, perhaps, imagining 
he had been dealing with insane people. Yet the habit 
grew at length to fit them so easily that visitors were 
known to stop at the house, converse pleasantly with 
them, in the presence of their children, and afterward 
depart without discovering the peculiarity of the old 
couple. They did not even make direct signs to each 
9 * 


202 


IN THE ICE. 


other, like dumb persons ; though, perhaps, if she wanted 
sugar from the grocery, she would set out the empty 
bucket where he would see it, and he, if he wished his 
coat mended, would lay it, rags uppermost, across a chair. 

One comprehends more easily how he could continue to 
live so, than how she could, with her woman’s heart. But 
she knew him to be implacable as fate, and had, I suppose, 
no notion of humbling herself to plead for a reconciliation 
which he might not grant. Or, perhaps, when her heart 
swelled with the memories of happier days, and yearned 
again for the love it had lost, the recollection of his harsh- 
ness and injustice rolled back the stone upon it ; for she, 
too, was one who found it hard to forget a wrong. 

The wonder was that they should continue to live to- 
gether. But children, as children so often do, prevented a 
separation at first ; and when the last of these married and 
removed to the far West, they had an idol of a grandchild 
left, the only son of their only son, who was dead. The 
boy had lost his mother, too, so that his grandparents now 
stood to him in the place of parents also. In him all 
their affections centred, and toward him even the old 
grandfather, who had always been stern enough with his 
own children, was sometimes (as is sometimes the way with 
grandfathers) foolishly weak and indulgent. 


II. 


THE IDOL OF HIS GRANDPARENTS. 

While the two sat there musing in the twilight, the 
door opened, and a young man, or rather a big boy, burst 
in, with a loud and abrupt manner, slamming the door 


IN THE ICE. 


203 


behind him, and tossing his cap at a hat-peg, without 
much apparent expectation of hitting it. 

“ Clinton, my dear,” said the old lady, in the tremulous 
accents of fond but querulous age, “ why can’t you hang 
up your things, when you come in 1 ’T would be so little 
trouble to you, and ’t would save me a sight. You ’re 
such a harum-scarum, tearin’ boy ! Now, Clinton ! ” 

“ 0, don’t bother ! I ’m tired,” said Clinton, flinging 
his overcoat on one chair, while he jerked another about, 
and sat down on it, between the old folks, perching his 
feet on the top of the stove. 

“ Clinton, you ’ll burn yer boots,” said the old man, in a 
tone of mild warning. 

“No, I won’t; there a’n’t heat enough to burn a — 
Thunder and lightning ! ” said Clinton, flirting his finger, 
after indiscreetly touching the stove with it, “ what do 
you keep such a big fire for 1 ” 

He pulled off his boots, and hurled them into the cor- 
ner, and sat in his stockings, with his feet on the stove- 
hearth, looking hugely dissatisfied, and glowering at his 
grandparents. For this was he, this was the idol, — being, 
as a matter of course, like most idols, unworthy of the 
worship he received. 

“ Clinton, what ’s the matter with ye to-night ? ” said 
the old man, with some impatience. 

“ Nothing, of course ! I ’ve never anything to complain 
of ! 0, of course not ! ” 

“ Wal, waf! what have ye to complain of 1 ” 

“ It ’s nothing, of course, that you both begin to scold 
me, soon as ever I set foot into the house. It ’s first 
my cap, then my boots, then something else. But I ’m 
sick of it ; and sometimes I think I never will come into 
this house again. It ’s like coming into a tomb.” 

“ Wal, I suppose it is,” said the old man ; “ I can’t 


204 


IN THE ICE. 


blame ye much ; but don’t say I scold ye when I don’t. 
Tell her I ’m waiting for my supper.” 

“ Tell him I ’m waiting for a pail of water,” said the old 
lady, who had, in fact, been waiting for it during the past 
half-hour, having no interpreter through whom to ask for 
it, being too infirm to go herself to the well. 

“ Why can’t you draw a pail of water, Clinton 1 ” said 
the old man. 

“ I ’ve just got my boots off,” said Clinton, with a snarl 
and a frown. 

The old man got up, and went out for the water. The 
old lady got up, and, without a word of reproach, took 
care of the young fellow’s cap and coat. He saw her 
stoop painfully to the floor, bending her poor old back, 
and then reach painfully to the pegs, which it was no 
effort at all for him to reach ; he heard the involuntary 
groans that escaped her ; and there he still sat, not once 
offering to help her, nor seeming to care. And yet he was 
not a bad-hearted boy, this Clinton. In the village, he 
enjoyed the reputation of being a “ first-rate fellow.” His 
generous and jovial traits made him a favorite with many, 
who never suspected what a thunder-cloud he sometimes 
was at home. -There, the agreeable companion became at 
once a grouty grandson. This was not simply because his 
home was gloomy, although this circumstance no doubt 
aggravated his fault. But the dark spirit was within him- 
self ; it had been fostered by indulgence and confirmed 
by habit, until, though his pride and his ambition to 
please enabled him to conceal it in society, at home it 
would have been scarcely possible for him to be anything 
else than a blusterer and an ingrate. 

“ Where have you been, to get so tired 1 ” asked the old 
lady. “ You ought to have gone to meetin’ this arternoon, 
Clinton ; you ha’n’t been for a month.” 


IN THE ICE. 


205 


“ There ! I knew I should get scolded for something 
else in a minute ! I could n’t go to meeting ; Phil Kermer 
wanted me. I ’m in the ice this year. We ’ve been bor- 
ing. We Ve bored in a dozen different places all over 
both ponds. Phil said he did n’t know what he should do 
without me,” said Clinton, brightening, for now he had a 
chance to brag. 

“ You and Phil are great friends, a’n’t ye ?” said the old 
lady ; and that flattered him. 

“ I bet we are ! He is the smartest fellow and the best 
fellow there is in this town. He is six years older than I 
am ; but that don’t make any difference, — we ’re just 
like brothers. He calls me Clint and I call him Phil. 
He is the Ice Company’s foreman this year; they trust 
him with everything ; he ’ll have three or four hundred 
men under him soon as we begin to cut. Won’t it be 
lively 1 ” 

“ What have you been boring for 1 ” 

“ To see how much ice has made since yesterday, and to 
see if it ’ll do to put our horses on to-morrow, in case it 
snows to-night. Phil is dead-sure it ’s going to snow. If 
we get three or four inches, it ’ll have to be scraped off. 
I ’m to be Phil’s right-hand man ; did you know it 1 ” 

“ Why, are you, Clinton 1 What are you going to do 1 ” 
said the old lady, proceeding to fill the teakettle, now that 
the pail of water was brought in. 

“ I ’m to be the marker. When we have so many men 
and horses at work, somebody must keep count of ’em, you 
know. I ’m to have all their names in a list, and then go 
round among ’em every day and see who ’s at work and 
who a’n’t, who does his duty and who shirks, and mark 
’em. Then I ’m to look after things in general,” said Clint, 
pompously tossing his head and pursing his lips, — “ give 
orders, and report, you know.” 


206 


IN THE ICE. 


“ I hope you won’t git into the pond, my dear ! ” said 
the old lady with a shudder. 

“ 0, pshaw, now ! don’t be silly ! Of course I sha’ n’t 
get into the pond. We do business on scientific principles. 
We know to a pound just how much weight ice of a cer- 
tain thickness will bear, — so many inches, so many hun- 
dred pounds, you know ; it must be so thick for men, and 
so thick for horses. Phil and I have got the figgers, — we 
understand.” 

“ Don’t accidents ever happen 1 ” 

“Yes, sometimes. Fellows get careless, and men and 
horses get in.” 

“ 0 Clinton ! ” said the old lady, in a trembling voice, 
“what should I do, if you — ” 

“ Bah ! you make me sick,” said Clint, with manly dis- 
gust, turning his back upon her, to manifest his disappro- 
bation of such womanly weakness, and sitting there in her 
way, never once offering to move out of it, all the while 
she was getting supper. 

“Clinton,” said the old man, resuming his seat, “I am 
afraid to have you so intimate with that Phil Kermer.” 

Clint gave a scornful snort. “ What next, I wonder ! 
You talk to me just as if I was a child ! ” And the young 
gentleman took care to show very plainly that his dignity 
was hurt. 

“ He ’s a man of bad habits, and I ’m afraid you ’ll fall 
into ’em,” the old man continued. 

“ He 1 Oh ! ” Clint sneered. 

“ He ’s a capable fellow, but he drinks ; and for my part, 
I wonder the company should ever have put him in the 
position where he is. I ’m sorry you ’ve got in with him ; 
he ’ll flatter ye to yer ruin.” 

The young gentleman was mightily offended at this ; and 
as he could think of no more effective way of resenting th? 


IN THE ICE. 


207 


insult to himself and his friend, he snatched his boots out 
of the corner, pulled them on, and stalked out of the 
house ; thus implying that, tired as he was, he could 
endure anything better than the unreasonableness of 
these old people, and, to do him justice, really believing 
himself an abused young man. 

He had stayed out in the cold about long enough, and 
was growing quite angry at the thought that he was, after 
all, punishing himself more than he was them, when the 
lamp was lighted, showing that supper was ready ; and he 
had a good excuse for going in. He was determined, how- 
ever, not to relax for an instant the awful severity of his 
wrathful countenance ; but, on the contrary, to convey, 
by every means in his power, the terrible impression that 
it was not probable he could ever bring himself to over- 
look what had passed. 

The old lady was wise enough to let him eat his supper 
in silence. But the old man, laying down his knife and fork, 
and sitting back in his chair, looked sternly at the youth, 
and said, “ Clinton, it grieves me to the heart to see you act 
so.” (Nothing could have pleased Clinton more.) “ But, let 
me tell you now, that if you don’t change for the better in 
this respect, you and I ’ll have to part.” (He did n’t like 
that quite so well, for the old man seemed to be in ear- 
nest.) “I’ve borne with your surly temper long enough. 
You can be pleasant in society ; why, then, can’t you learn 
to behave yourself at home 1 You know I would do any- 
thing in the world for you, that was for your good ; but the 
more I indulge you, the more ungrateful and insolent and 
sullen you are. You must reform, if you stay under this 
roof ; do you hear me 1 ” 

“Yes, sir,” said Clinton, lowering, but respectful, for he 
knew better than to trifle with the old man when his jaws 
had that expression. He took early occasion, however, to 


208 


IN THE ICE. 


manifest his sovereign displeasure, and to fill the grand- 
parental bosoms with remorse, by putting on his cap and 
coat immediately after supper, and once more departing 
from the house. 

“ 0 dear ! 0 dear ! 0 dear ! ” sighed the old lady, as 
she slowly and with shaking hands cleared away the 
dishes. But the old man sat silent and stern in his cor- 
ner, thinking how he should do his duty by that young 
man. 


IIL 

THE LITTLE HOUSEWIFE AND HER FRIENDS. 

Clinton, out of doors, was at the same time thinking 
how he should wring drops of repentance out of the old 
man’s heart. 

It was beginning to snow. He was glad of that, for 
two reasons : in the first place, he was eager to commence 
work on the pond, and assume authority under Phil ; and, 
in the next place, he longed for an occasion to show his 
independence of the old folks. 

“ I won’t be home till long after they ’re abed to- 
night,” he muttered to himself; “ and I ’ll be off in the 
morning before they ’re up. I ’ll take a pie in my hand, 
and go to dinner with Phil, and they sha’ n’t see me for 
three days, if I can help it. Glory ! how it snows ! ” 

Another thought struck him. He was in business now ; 
why not get married, and have a home of his own ? “ That 
would kill the old folks ! ” he chuckled. “ I ’ll let ’em see 
whether I ’m a boy, to be forever dictated to ! ” But 
whom should he marry? Emma Welford, of course; he 
would not deign to look at anybody else now he was “ in 


IN THE ICE. 


209 


the ice,” and had got to be Phil’s “right-hand man.” He 
had been in love with her from the day when he helped 
untangle her fragrant veil from a blissful rosebush, and 
she gave him a look that had rankled with a sweet pang 
in his heart ever since. He would have proposed to her 
before now, if he could have shown that he had any means 
of supporting a family. “ I wonder what salary Phil will 
give me”; and he proceeded to count a very large brood 
of chickens, without waiting for the important process of 
incubation. 

He went to see Emma that very evening; shook and 
stamped off the snow in the entry, and held her dear 
little hand in his until she withdrew it, saying, for an 
excuse, “ Why, how damp you are, Clinton ! ” 

Then he went in, and sat down, and cracked jokes, and 
played with the children, and was altogether so kind- 
hearted and lively, that any one who had seen him an 
hour before, seeing him again now, would have conjectured 
there must be two Clintons, — one stamped in the mint 
of the morning, the other cast in the dark mould of 
night. Were you ever in your life, my experienced friend, 
aware of such a phenomenon 1 And do you, sweet miss (I 
am looking straight into your eyes at this moment), do 
you imagine that, when you shall have given your hand 
to the brave John or Thomas, whose brightness beams 
upon you now on set evenings of the week, and he shall 
have taken you to his home, — do you, I say, imagine it 
possible that he may there introduce you, in some unhappy 
hour, to his counterpart, the dark John or Thomas, whose 
existence you have never yet suspected ? And you, blithe 
lover, do you know that you invariably leave one self be- 
hind you, and that, perhaps, your real self, when you go 
to meet your Mary ? Well, and perhaps she puts her real 
self carefully away out of your sight too. 

N 


210 


IN THE ICE. 


Of course, Emma’s folks liked Clinton, and were always 
delighted to have him come in. And here I must say a 
word about the family, which consisted of, first, old Uncle 
Jim, her grandfather, — the same Cousin Jim, by the way, 
who once came so near marrying Clinton’s grandmother. 
He had not broken his heart over that unhappy affair, but 
had transferred it, in a tolerably sound and healthy condi- 
tion, to another young woman, whom he had married, and 
with whom he had lived happily upwards of forty years. 
It was the loss greater than all other losses when this 
aged companion went from them. “But, bless you, sir ! ” 
he used to say, “ she left the gate open, and I ’ve seen the 
light through it ever since.” A still darker sorrow he 
had known : a promising young man had won their 
daughter, their only child. He seemed to have but one 
fault, yet that one fault had broken her heart, and sent 
him early to a drunkard’s grave. All this and much more 
(for no life is free from trials) the cheerful spirit of the 
man survived ; and now he lived here with his orphaned 
grandchildren, their best friend and companion, and still 
himself a child of threescore years and ten. 

Emma was the little housewife and matron, and a 
charming little matron she was. “ Her very mother’s self 
over again,” Uncle Jim would sometimes murmur aloud, 
watching her with eyes brimful of tears and blessings, as 
she moved about the house. Not that she was the perfect 
pattern of neatness and order which we sometimes read 
about in good books ; how could she be, with four younger 
brothers and sisters to look after, besides the housework 1 
She believed that little ones were to be amused and made 
happy ; and how was that possible unless they were some- 
times allowed to litter the floor with their playthings ? 

“ I can’t be always following them up, and tormenting 
them about such trifles,” she said to Mrs. Jones, a good 


IN THE ICE. 


211 


friend and neighbor, and the queen of housekeepers, who, 
looking in to see how the little family of orphans were 
getting along, had exclaimed, “ Why, Emma ! how can you 
stand it 1 ” 

“0, I stand it very well ! ” laughed Emma. “If I 
believed that immaculate housekeeping was the great end 
and aim of a woman’s life, as some people seem to think, I 
suppose I should be troubled in my mind. But I tried, 
and I found I could n’t have perfect order and merry 
children in the house at the same time ; and I must say 
1 prefer the merry children.” 

So it is to be feared we should have found many things 
out of place in Emma’s little domain had we visited it 
with good Mrs. Jones ; but two little things we should 
always have found in place, namely, a cheerful counte- 
nance and a loving heart. 

Emma was “ so glad ” Clinton had come in ; he always 
made such fun for the children ; “ though you must n’t be 
so funny as you are sometimes, you know,” she whispered, 
“ because it ’s Sunday.” 

“ It ’s after sundown, and gran’pa always lets us play 
then; if ’t is Sunday ; don’t you, gran’pa % ” young Tommy 
appealed. 

“We keep Saturday nights, or pretend to,” said the old 
man. “ Dear me ! ” he went on, with tender seriousness, 
“ what ’s more interesting, what is there prettier, than the 
sight of children at play 1 I believe Heaven itself is pleased 
at it.” 

“ There ! he said we might,” cried Tommy. “ Come, 
Clint, make a wheelbarrow of me, and let Sissy ride, as 
we did the other night.” 

So Clint made a wheelbarrow of him, using his legs for 
handles, and running him on his hands, which worked 
quite well in place of a wheel ; and Lucy and Jimmy set 


212 


IN THE ICE. 


little Sissy on and held her, while Clint trundled her 
about the room, crying, “ Po-ta-toes ! Anybody want to 
buy a bag of po-ta-toes ! ” Sissy thought it the funniest 
thing in the world to be a bag of potatoes, and to have 
somebody buy her ; and, of course, everybody laughed. 
Tommy himself laughed so that he broke down, and had to 
be taken to the blacksmith’s shop to be mended. Grand- 
father’s knees were the shop, and grandfather’s arm was 
the handle of the bellows ; and Clint blew and hammered, 
and hammered and blew, imitating with his lips the 
wheeze of the blast, until Tommy declared, amid convul- 
sions of laughter, that he was “ tickled to death,” and 
begged not to be mended any more. 

“Well, I ’ll just put your tire on,” said Clint; but 
Tommy said he did n’t wear tires, — Jimmy and Sissy 
did, — he was a big boy, and had outgrown them ; 
which blunder of his created great merriment among 
the older ones, for Clint meant the tire of the imaginary 
wheel. 

Clint was peddling potatoes again when a second caller 
came in. This was no other than the Ice Company’s 
foreman, Phil Kermer. The arrival of no other person 
could have created a livelier interest in the little circle 
just then. Emma blushed as she had not blushed when 
Clinton came ; and the younger children, with whom Phil 
also was a great favorite, rushed to meet him. 

“ The old woman is picking her geese ! the old woman 
is picking her geese ! ” said Lucy and Jimmy, as he shook 
the feathery snow from his garments, while the wheel- 
barrow jumped up and ran away on its handles to the 
entry, greatly to the disappointment of the bag of po- 
tatoes. 

“ I wanted you to thell me to him,” lisped the little 
commodity, regarding the new-comer as a customer. 


IN THE ICE. 


213 


“ Well, I ’ll buy you,” said Phil, entering into the joke 
when it was explained to him. “ What are you, — Irish 
potatoes 1 ” tossing the bag up lightly on his shoulder. 

(< No, I m thweet potatoeth,” said the bag. At which 
unconsciously apt reply (for was n’t she sweet, though 
everybody was delighted. 

“ Now, I ’ll put you in the cellar,” said Phil, setting her 
up in the corner behind his chair. “ Which will you be, 
— boiled or roasted 1 ” 

“ Woathted, with thalt on me ; but the watth (rats) 
will nibble me here ! ” And out ran sweet potatoes, flying 
about the room, and keeping up her play till that season 
so dreaded by fun-loving children arrived, — bedtime. 

“Not a word ! ” said Emma ; and the gentle authority 
she exercised over the little pouters was beautiful to 
behold. “ Come, I have let you sit up a good deal longer 
than usual to-night, to see the company; and now you 
must n’t complain. If you do, I shall have to send you 
off to bed the first thing, the next time they come. Why, 
Sissy ! I need n’t hang your clothes upon the hook to- 
night, need 1 1 I can hang them on your lip ! ” 

That funny notion set Sissy to laughing, so that she 
quite forgot the grievance of having to go to bed. 

“Come, then,” said Emma, and she led the three youn- 
ger ones (Lucy was going to sit up a little longer) to their 
grandpapa’s knee, around which they knelt, and with 
sweetly composed faces and little hands folded repeated 
the Lord’s Prayer in unison, very reverently; Sissy’s 
lisped syllables, “ Lead uth not into temptathon,” chiming 
in so softly and so * suggestively (dear child ! what did she 
know of temptation 1) that Phil Kermer (who did know 
something of it, and knew, too, that there was need enough 
of his making that prayer) felt his eyes, as he listened, 
suddenly grow dim with an unaccountable and very extraor- 


214 


IN THE ICE. 


dinary moisture. Young Clint might also have breathed 
that prayer to advantage ; but somehow the scene did not 
touch him in the same way. 

Then the old grandfather, in accents affectingly tremu- 
lous with the earnestness of his love, gave the little ones 
his blessing ; then they kissed everybody good night, and 
Emma went to see them safely tucked up in bed. 

Presently a rap was heard on the stove-pipe which went up 
from the sitting-room into the chamber above. “ Mithter 
Phil ! Mithter Phil ! ” called Sissy, “ when you going to 
woatht and eat me 1 ” Then the ringing laugh that fol- 
lowed ! — did ever silver bells equal its music 1 

“ What should we do without the children 1 ” said 
Uncle Jim. “ What would the old folks do without you, 
Clinton!” he added, thinking immediately of his aged 
friends in the other house. “It’s fortunate you have 
such a loving disposition. You ’re their sunbeam, I ’m 
sure.” 

Clint looked a trifle disconcerted at this. “ It ’s being a 
sunbeam under difficulties, where they are,” he said. 

“ Well, I suppose it may be. Poor Jane ! she was such 
a bright girl when — I — I’m sincerely sorry for them,” 
said the old man, with emotion. He had never treasured 
up resentment against them for the wrong they had done 
him, and consequently had never felt a thrill of triumph, 
nor anything else but pity, for the cloud that darkened 
their lives. 

“It would be easy enough to be a sunbeam in this 
house,” thought Clint ; and he drew an enchanting picture 
of himself marrying into the family, having such fun with 
the young ones every night, and receiving a call from Phil 
as often as that gentleman would have the condescension 
to come in. With Emma for a wife and Phil for a friend, 
he believed he would be the most fortunate and enviable 


IN THE ICE. 


215 


fellow in the world ; and, indeed, one could hardly blame 
him for that fancy. 

Where was there another man like Phil ? Strong, self- 
reliant, magnetic, kindly, with broad and genial manners, 
and a smile that broke like sunrise through the cloud of 
his ruddy-brown beard, you would have set him down at 
once as a powerful and attractive person with the young of 
both sexes. 

Clint thought they were intimate friends, whereas the 
relation he bore to Phil was that of a faithful spaniel to 
an indulgent master. Phil liked him, of course, as good 
masters like their dogs. The one walked, gravely com- 
placent, his own road, while the other followed and played 
about him. Clint opened his heart and confided every- 
thing to Phil, but Phil kept his own counsel. Clint had 
even, on one or two occasions, whispered to him his secret 
hopes with regard to Emma Welford, — a confession which 
Phil had received with a very curious smile. 

While they were waiting for Emma to return to the 
room, Clint longed to walk up to his friend and give him 
a hint of his present matrimonial purpose ; but something 
in Phil’s face or manner prevented him. This evening, in 
fact, the hound happened to be in the master’s way, and 
so received cold looks in place of the expected encourage- 
ment. 

Emma stayed out of the room as long as she decently 
could, dreading to return to it for reasons which may as well 
be told. She was afraid of Phil Kermer, — afraid, because 
he was at once the dearest man to her in all the world, and 
the most dangerous. He had w T on her heart almost before 
she knew it ; and only when he came to speak to her of 
marriage had she awakened to the peril of her position. 

Her father had died a drunkard, and her mother, on her 
dying bed, had made her promise that she would never 


216 


IN THE ICE. 


marry a “ drinking man.” After the ruin she had seen 
wrought in her own family by that one fatal habit of self- 
indulgence, it seeemed hardly necessary that such a prom- 
ise should be exacted from her ; but now she was glad she 
had given it, for it seemed her only safety. She might, in 
some joy-intoxicated moment, forget the two untimely 
graves in the churchyard, and their silent warning; but 
that sacred pledge she could never forget, — it would prove 
a barrier against temptation when everything else had failed. 

Phil Kermer did not merely take a little wine for the 
stomach’s sake, nor was he, on the other hand, a drunkard 
any more than her father had been at his age ; but that he 
took, now and then, something stronger than wine, and 
took a trifle too much, could not be denied. He had at 
first laughed at Emma for asking him to forego the prac- 
tice ; and when he found how serious she was in requiring 
it of him, he was vexed. He thought it absurd and in- 
jurious for any person to suppose that he, Phil Kermer, 
was capable of ever becoming a sot, and for her to think 
so was especially grievous. They had quarrelled on that 
theme when last they parted, and he had kept away from 
her as long as he could. She had been made very miser- 
able by his absence, and now she was at once overjoyed 
and alarmed to see him again. 

With nervous hands she smoothed her hair and arranged 
her collar, after hugging the little ones in bed, and finally 
went down stairs. Lucy and Uncle Jim soon retired, and 
left her alone with the visitors. There was an awkward 
silence of some moments, during which she read in Phil’s 
face two things, — that he had come, full of passion and 
persuasion, to convince her that she, not he, was wrong ; 
and that he was quietly waiting for Clint to go. She at 
once determined that Clint should not go, little thinking 
what he himself had come for. 


IN THE ICE. 


217 


A damp had fallen upon the boy’s spirits, which he 
vainly endeavored to shake off. At length, he went to 
the door and looked out at the snow-storm. On his 
return, Emma moved to make room for him on the sofa 
beside her. 

“ I tell you, this will make lively work for us to-mor- 
row ; won’t it, Phil 1 ” said he. 

Phil merely wagged his beard with a slow, lazy nod, and 
neither smiled nor spoke. This reserve was killing to 
poor Clint, but Emma came to his rescue. 

“ What have you to do with the snow 1 ” she asked, to 
call him out, although she had already heard him brag 
that he was “ in the ice ” this year, along with Phil. 
That set him going again. They had the conversation all 
to themselves, however, Mr. Kermer only now and then 
giving a word or a nod when appealed to, as he sat placidly 
pulling his beard, and waiting for Clint to go. 

At last a confused glimmering of the truth broke upon 
the young man’s mind. It was when she reproved them 
for what they had been doing that afternoon, namely, 
boring the ice. 

“ You should n’t bore on Sundays,” she said. 

“ Nor on Sunday evenings, either,” Phil added, so dryly 
that nobody could tell just what he meant by the joke. 

Clint, however, took the application home to himself, 
and felt terribly cut up by it. He began to explain to 
her that boring on the Sabbath was sometimes a deed of 
necessity, but quite broke down before he had ended, and 
wound up with, “ Well, I guess I had better be going.” 

“ No, don’t go yet,” said Emma, so smilingly that he 
felt soothed and flattered, and remained. Phil gave his 
beard a harder pull than usual, but kept an imperturbable 
countenance. 

Still Clint could not feel easy; and although Emma 
10 


218 


IN THE ICE. 


was never so charming, her excitement giving vivacity to 
her manners and brilliancy to her looks, and she did her 
best to entertain him, it was not long before he whispered 
to her, with a dark glance at Phil, that he really ought to 
go. But she shook her head, with a look in the same di- 
rection, as much as to say, “ Don’t mind him,” and whis- 
pered back, “ Stay a little longer, — to please me.” 

Phil pretended to be looking over an album of photo- 
graphs, but saw and heard everything. He no longer be- 
lieved that the objection she had made to his habit of 
drinking was her real motive for slighting him, but became 
suddenly fired with jealousy of the boy. Full of ire, 
which, however, he had the tact not to betray, he quietly 
closed the book, stroked his beard again, suppressed a 
yawn, and lazily got up. 

“ Well, good evening,” he said, and, of course, noticed 
that she did not urge him to stay. 

Clint made a feeble motion to accompany him, vacillated, 
and finally remained. 

Emma rose immediately, said, “ Must you go, Mr. 
Kermerl” and stood by the entry door, waiting for him 
to put on his coat. He paused as he buttoned it, and 
looked down at her; she looked up at him, her cheeks 
flushed, her feet and hands like ice, her lips forcing a 
smile. 

“ Is this our good-by 1 ” he said, in a low tone, penetrat- 
ing her with an indescribable look. 

“ It is good night, not good by, — at least I hope so,” 
she said. “ I should be sorry to lose your friendship.” 

“ Indeed ! ” He took her cold little hand, but dropped 
it again, smiled in his turn gloomily and bitterly, and 
said, “ Good by” 

He gave her a long, searching, farewell glance, and went 
out into the storm. 


IN THE ICE. 


219 


She watched him from the door till his form vanished in 
the dim, white, falling cloud of snow. There were melting 
flakes on her eyelashes when she went back into the room, 
and she seemed quite chilled. Her spirits had forsaken 
her, and she had only vacant looks and the very ghost of 
a smile for poor Clint, whom we will now leave to his 
wooing. 


IY. 

PHIL ASSERTS HIS INDEPENDENCE. 

Mr. Phil Kermer boarded at the very worst place in 
the world for a man of his tastes and temperament, namely, 
the village hotel. When he returned home that even- 
ing, he was not in a mood to go quietly to bed and think 
of his sins, which would have been by far the most whole- 
some thing for him to do. On the contrary, he took the 
very course which led him still further from the happiness 
which he (like so many of us) wished to clutch and make 
his own, without first earning it by honest endeavor. 

He felt blue, in short, and thought he would assert his 
independence and warm his heart a little by taking a 
dram. Finding half a dozen good fellows in the bar-room, 
he invited them to drink with him. Then, as your good 
fellows can never bear to be outdone in generosity, each 
felt under obligations to treat in return. So it happened 
that Phil asserted his independence a good many times, 
for it is good fellows’ etiquette to drink again with the 
man who has drank with you. Considerable confusion 
seemed to arise at last with regard to whose turn it was to 
treat, as well as with regard to things in general, and Phil 
somehow found himself doing the honorable thing again, 


220 


IN THE ICE. 


and still again. The result was thatjhe, for the first time, 
went to bed that night decidedly and unmistakably — 
independent. 

Clint, in the mean while, went home sober enough, — a 
little more so, in fact, than he had expected to be on that 
occasion. What he had said to Emma, and what she had 
said to him, I could never learn ; but this I know, that 
lovers have returned from their wooing with lighter hearts 
under their jackets than Clint carried that night into the 
gloomy old house, and up stairs to his sad bed. He lay 
awake a long time, thinking what a fool he had been, and 
wishing himself where neither grandparents, nor Emma, 
nor Phil might ever hear from him again, until they should 
some day learn, with bitter remorse and envy, what a 
noble, great, renowned, rich man he had got to be. 

Waking early, and looking out on the still, white morn- 
ing (the storm was over, but the earth was covered, and 
the laden trees drooped with their beautiful burden of 
snow), and remembering that he was “ in the ice,” he 
jumped up, and felt his interest in life revive as he thought 
of the exciting day’s work before him. 

“ Never mind,” thought he; “Phil’s a good fellow. I 
don’t blame him. I won’t be in his way another time. I ’m 
his right-hand man this year, and that ’s enough for me.” 

So he forgave Phil, who was necessary to him; but was 
quite far from forgiving his grandparents, of whose happi- 
ness he was himself so necessary a part. 

He ate his pie secretly in the pantry, and went out into 
the snow, — the first to make tracks through its calm 
and unsullied purity that memorable morning. Arrived 
at the tavern, he found Phil in bed, sick. 

“ A cold, — an awful headache, — that ’s all.” And the 
haggard foreman fixed his eyes steadily as he could on his 
right-hand man. “ Has it stopped snowing 1 ” 


IN THE ICE. 


221 


“ Yes ; the sky is clear as a bell.” 

“ That ’s deused unlucky, with this headache on me ! 
How much snow fell 1 ” 

“ About five inches.” 

“ The wooden scrapers will do. Take the key, Clint, — 
it ’s hanging on that nail there ; go and open the tool- 
house, and start the men when they come. I ’ll be there 
soon.” 

“ All right,” said Clint, and hurried away, proud of the 
importance of his duties. 

The men had had warning that, if it snowed, they must 
be on hand with their teams as soon as the storm was 
over ; and when the sun rose on the dazzling scene, not 
fewer than a hundred laborers and sixty horses were 
already on the pond. 

Clint went around among them, pompously giving orders, 
only to get laughed at. When they learned that Phil was 
sick, they went to work in their own way, choosing the way 
that would most annoy Clint, in preference to any other. 

“ I cut ice Tore ever you was out o’ your baby-clo’es ; an’ 
think I ’m goin’ to be gee-hawed about by you 1 ” said old 
Farmer Corbett, whose contempt for Phil’s “right-hand 
man v seemed to be pretty generally shared by the rest. 

Clint was enraged at their conduct, as well as alarmed. 
Phil had told him the day before, that, as the ice was, it 
would not do to put many teams on it together, but that 
they must be scattered over the pond. The men, how- 
ever, would not believe but that the ice was twice as thick 
as it was ; and, for want of specific orders from Kermer, 
they all went to scraping on one side. In vain Clint 
shrieked his commands to them to scatter. To and fro 
and athwart the icy field went the men and horses and 
scrapers, sometimes almost huddling together, just the 
same as if he had not interfered. 


222 


IN THE ICE. 


“ Stop your clack, and go and git some more hammers, 
or mallets, or suthin’, to knock off the balls with ” (for the 
snow was damp, and the horses’ feet “balled” badly), “if 
you want to do anything,” said the old farmer ; and went 
off with his loaded scraper to the bank. 

The hammers were needed ; and Clint, disgusted, 
tramped back to the tool-house to get them. To his great 
relief, he there found Phil, who had just arrived in a sleigh. 

“ Phil, you ought to be out there ! ” said Clint. 

Kermer, who was feeling dreadfully shaky and remorse- 
ful and cross, took offence at what seemed to him imperti- 
nent dictation. For the very reason that he was conscious 
of a guilty neglect of duty, he was the more sensitive to 
being told so by a boy. 

“ I know my own business,” he answered sharply. 

“ Yes ; but,” persisted Clint, “ if you can’t be out there 
yourself, do just come and enforce my authority. They 
won’t mind a word I say. The men and horses all get 
into a heap ; and they ’ll be through the ice as sure as you 
live. Old Corbett says I don’t know anything.” 

“ And so you don’t ! ” broke forth Phil, furiously, per- 
haps remembering last night, and thinking that, but for 
Clint, who was then in his way, he should not have made 
a beast of himself, as he had done, and lost his self-respect, 
and all hope of Emma, whose scruples regarding his one 
bad habit he had so quickly and so shamefully justified. 
“Your authority 1 ?” he went on, with quite savage con- 
tempt. “You have no authority ! If old Corbett is there, 
it ’s all right. What do you want *? ” 

Clint, quite stunned by this violence, stammered out 
something about hammers. Phil gave him four, and told 
him to be gone. The young man, white with suppressed 
anger, thrust two or three of them — one a small sledge, 
or stone-hammer, weighing several pounds — into his 


IN THE ICE. 


223 


overcoat pockets, and went out of the building very much 
as he was accustomed, in his bad moods, to walk out of the 
house at home. This was the last the foreman remem- 
bered of that unfortunate transaction. 

He felt at once that he had done wrong, and that he 
ought to call the boy back and speak kindly to him. 
“ I ’m a brute ! ” he muttered, clasping one hand convul- 
sively to his forehead, and steadying himself with the 
other, as he staggered back against a work-bench. 

There, half sitting, half leaning, with his head bowed and 
his face covered, he remained, feeling himself still too weak 
and shaky to appear among the men, and thinking no very 
happy thoughts, be sure, when he was roused from his 
stupor by a wild cry, or rather a tumult of cries. It came 
from the pond. He was on his feet in an instant ; he 
knew that something terrible was happening. He rushed 
out of the tool-house just in time to see a thronged field of 
the frozen surface undulate and break up, and a reeling 
and plunging mass of utterly helpless men and horses go 
down in the ice. 


y. 

THE POND-RAKES COME IN PLAT. 

Old man Dracutt was sweeping snow from the door- 
yard path when Uncle Jim stopped at the gate. 

“ Good mornin’, Jonathan.” 

“ Good mornin’, good mornin’, James ! ” said Jonathan, 
resting on his broom. “ What ’s the good word this morn- 
in’, James?” 

“ No good word, Jonathan,” said Uncle Jim, in a con- 
strained and awkward manner, pulling the gate open and 
coming in. 


224 


IN THE ICE. 


“ Hey ! what ’s the matter 1 — folks sick 1 ” 

“ My folks are all well ; children are chipper, thank 
Heaven! ” U**cle Jim cleared his throat. “ All well here 1 ” 

“ Toler’ble, all that ’s to home. Clinton ’s off to-day.” 

“ Ah ! Where ’s Clint ? ” 

“ To work on the ice, I s’pose.” 

“ Sorry to hear that ! ” said Uncle Jim. “ There ’s been 
an accident, did yon know it 1 ” 

“ On the ice 1 ” cried old man Dracutt, with an anxious 
start. 

“ So I hear. A good many men got in ; and it ’s feared 
they ha’ n’t all got out again.” And Uncle Jim fixed his 
tender blue eyes compassionately on old man Dracutt’ s 
face. 

“ Not — Clinton 1 ” 

“ Some of the wet men have come to my house for 
clothing. I — I hope for the best, Jonathan. There ’s no 
knowing yet; but I thought you ought to be prepared. 
Dear boy ! he was in to see us last night, — so lively, as he 
always is ! No, no, Jonathan ! I can’t believe he is 
drownded ! ” But Uncle Jim turned away with a look 
that told a different story. 

“ I understand ; you ’ve come to break it to me.” Jona- 
than spoke calmly, though his voice was deep and husky, 
and he leaned heavily on the broom. “ Tell me the truth 
James ; is he drownded 1 ” 

“So the men say; but they — ” James set out to 
explain, but Jonathan cut him short. 

“ Where 1” 

“ Over by the white ice-houses.” 

“ Go in and tell her,” said Jonathan. 

He himself did not go in (and we will not), but started 
at once to walk to the scene of the disaster. 

“ Drownded ! and my last word to him was a harsh 


IN THE ICE. 


225 


one ! ” he murmured, as he went out at the gate ; and 
again, ever and anon, as he tramped with difficulty through 
the snow, “ Drownded ! and my last word was unkind ! ” 

It was a mile to the spot, and the old man was more 
infirm than he appeared. He soon came in sight of the 
pond, however, and could see, far off, groups of men mov- 
ing excitedly about the broken field. Some were clearing 
the water of the floating fragments of ice ; others, in boats, 
or standing on the unbroken edge, were thrusting down 
poles, which he knew to be the long-handled, ponderous 
pond-rakes, with which -the bottom was in summer cleared 
of weeds. Up and down, and to and fro, the poles were 
pushed and dragged, and he was sure they were searching 
for his boy. 

With this terrible knowledge, and with this scene full in 
view, the old man walked the last half-mile of his toilsome 
tramp. He kept the bank of the pond until he was quite 
near, then went down upon the ice. Crossing an unbroken 
corner, he soon came to the men with the poles. They 
continued at work, while others standing by made way 
for him with ominous respect, — the respect which even 
the rudest persons instinctively show to one in afflic- 
tion. There was a hush of voices as he appeared ; then 
old Farmer Corbett turned to him and said bluntly, 
“It ’s a bad business, Neighbor Dracutt. If the boys 
had only heerd to me, ’t would n’t ’a’ happened. I kep’ 
tellin’ on ’em they worked too clust together ; though I ’d 
no idee myself but that the ice was thicker. Lucky for 
me, I ’d jest drove off when it give way. Your boy wa’n’t 
alone. We had thirty men and eighteen hosses in to once. 
But I flew round, pulled off the ropes from t’other hosses, 
and thro wed ’em to the fellers we could n’t reach. Wooden 
scrapers was lucky, — I vow, I believe the boys would have 
hitched on to the iron ones, if ’t had n’t been for me ; 

10* o 


226 


IN THE ICE. 


they helped keep ’em afloat, the wooden scrapers did. We 
broke the ice to the shore, and hild the hosses’ heads above 
water till they could tech bottom, an’ in ten minutes we 
had ’em all out.” 

“ All ! ” said the old man, with a sudden gleam of hope. 

“ All the animals, an’ all the fellers but your grandson ; 
at least, he ’s the only one missin’, fur ’s we know. 
There wa’n’t no need o’ his bein’ drownded at all ; but 
he ’d been to git some hammers to knock off the balls from 
the hosses’ hoofs with, an’ ’pears the foolish feller tucked 
’em in his pockets. They took him right to the bottom, 
of course. An’ what I ’m feared on now is, we sha’ n’t find 
him at all. This here shore slants right down steep, to 
about seventy or eighty feet deep, off here ; an’ with them 
hammers in his pockets, with every struggle he made, he ’d 
be liable, don’t ye see 1 to work his way furder an’ furder 
down that pitch. That ’s what I tell ’em ; but they don’t 
seem inclined to believe a word I say. If they ’d believed 
me when I telled ’em they ought to scatter more, an’ not 
crowd together so on sech young ice, ’t would ’a’ been 
better for all on us, I vow.” 

Mr. Dracutt watched the men raking the pond for some 
time, without speaking, though his lips moved now and 
then inaudibly. At last he asked for Kermer. 

“ That ’s him with the pole, in the bow of that furder 
boat there,” said Farmer Corbett. “ He ’s done his duty 
sence he ’s been here j but if he ’d been here afore, ’t would 
’a’ saved all this. Nobody knowed how to go to work. 
Nobody would hear to me, though I telled ’em — ” and so 
forth ; the worthy farmer appearing by this time to have 
convinced even himself that he had foreseen the danger, 
and to find a dismal satisfaction in uttering prophecies 
after the fact. 

“ Don’t handle your rake that way ! ” said the old man, 


IN THE ICE. 


227 


as Farmer Corbett thrust down the implement in a fresh 
spot beneath the ice. “ Be more careful ; be more tender ! 
You may hurt the boy ! ” 

“ He ’s past hurtin’ by this time, I guess likely/’ said 
Farmer Corbett. “ The main thing now is to fish him out.” 

“ Wal, wal ! be gentle ! I would n’t have ye mar his 
featur’s, nor any part of him, more ’n I ’d have ye tear my 
own flesh. If he ’s drownded, he ’s drownded ; but don’t 
mangle him. Whereabouts was he when he went down 1 ” 

“ That nobody knows. It ’s as much as a chap wants 
to do, sech a time, to keep the run of himself, with an 
acre of ice slumpin’ down under him, and the water 
spurtin’ up about his legs ; he can’t keep many eyes on 
to his neighbors, nor do much else but mind his own busi- 
ness for a spell. Two or three o’ them that got the duck- 
in’, — they ’ve gone off now for dry shirts and breeches, — 
they said they seen Clint a standin’ on the ice not more ’n 
a few seconds ’fore it split up, though, of course, they 
can’t tell jest where. A sudden casouse over neck an’ 
heels into ice-water makes a feller feel curis, I tell ye, for 
about a minute, an’ forgit things. I tried it once myself.” 

“ How long ’fore you missed him f ” the old man asked. 

“ I vow, I don’t know as we sh’d ’a’ missed him till this 
time,” said Farmer Corbett, getting down on his knees, and 
feeling with his rake to the utmost depth it would fathom ; 
“ but Kermer missed him. He asked for Clint Dracutt, 
a’most the fust thing, ’fore ever we ’d got half the men 
out. He knowed about the hammers in his pockets, ye 
see. No use ! ” (Drawing up the rake.) “ The bottom ’s 
gittin’ down out o’ my reach, and I go about two-an’-twen- 
ty foot. We shall have to lash poles to the rake-handles ; 
an’ then, if we don’t find him, cut holes in the ice here 
behind us, an’ fish for him through them.” 

“ Don’t git discouraged,” cried the old man, seeing that 


228 


IN THE ICE. 


others were at the same time beginning to relax their 
efforts. “Let me take the rake.” 

Farmer Corbett was quite willing to give it up ; and the 
old man found a temporary relief to his distress of mind 
in the physical exertion of searching for the body. It was 
hard work, however, and his strength was soon exhausted. 
He was feebly hauling up the weed-entangled rake from 
under the verge of the ice, when some one came and took 
him by the arm. It was Phil Kermer, sober enough by 
this time. 

“ This is no work for you, Mr. Dracutt. Come away ; 
let me send you home.” 

“ No, no ! I can’t go till he is found,” said the old man. 

“ I will see that everything is done that can be done,” 
said Phil. “ Come ; my sleigh is here.” 

Still the old man refused to go. And now the foreman 
was called away from him by the arrival of the president 
of the Ice Company, driving down in a cutter to the edge 
of the pond, where two of the directors, who were already 
on the spot, went to meet him. 


VI. 


PHIL RESIGNS HIS SITUATION. 

Kermer, on coming up, found the three in consultation. 

“ How is this, Kermer ? ” said the president, from under 
his rich sleigh-robes. 

“ Gentlemen,” said Phil, “ I ’ll tell you just how it is,” 
the haggard face and earnest manner of the man com- 
manding at once their sympathy and respect. “ I suppose 
I am to blame in this matter.” He hesitated, dropped his 
head upon his breast, clinching his hands and his teeth 


IN THE ICE. 


229 


tightly for a moment, then went on. “ The truth is, I was 
drunk last night, and I was n’t myself this morning. 
There ’s no use disguising the fact ; I don’t wish to dis- 
guise it; I don’t wish to shirk the consequences. Do 
your worst with me, gentlemen. I ’m prepared.” 

“ But what can we do, Kermer ] ” 

“One thing, certainly. You can discharge a foreman 
who has been guilty of such gross neglect of duty. You 
can’t do less than that. You can do as much more as you 
please.” 

“ But we don’t know how to spare you ; we don’t want to 
spare you, Kermer,” said the president. “You have been 
a very useful man to us. And this being the first offence 
of the kind, which I am sure you will never repeat — ” 

“ It ’s no use, sir ! ” answered the foreman, in a voice 
shaken to its depths by strong emotion. “ You don’t see 
your own interests as I see them. You will stand better 
with the community if you discharge me. That ’s the only 
atonement you can make to the boy’s friends. They will 
feel better. And as an example, gentlemen, you ought to 
do it, if for no other reason.” 

“ How so, Kermer ] ” 

“Because,” said Phil, who seemed to have lived and 
thought more in the past two hours than in years before, 
and to have come to great conclusions, — “ because young 
men ought not to be able to say that a foreman in an im- 
portant place like mine can keep that place after he has 
caused the death of one man, and endangered the lives of 
fifty, by getting drunk.” 

The president and his two associates on the spot, being 
kind-hearted and just men, were greatly embarrassed to 
know what to do in the case. If Kermer had approached 
them with falsehood and excuse, endeavoring to cast the 
blame of the accident upon others, their duty would have 


230 


IN THE ICE. 


been comparatively clear ; such a foreman would certainly 
have deserved to be dismissed. But nothing disarms cen- 
sure like self-accusation ; and the deep remorse he evinced, 
yet more by his manner than by his words, seemed the 
best guaranty he could give of sober and faithful behavior 
in the future. 

“ There is force in what you say, Kenner,” said one of 
the directors. “ But the very fact that you say it con- 
vinces me that you are, after all, a man to be trusted. 
You have shown great ability and fidelity to our interests 
hitherto, and I don’t think one such indiscretion ought to 
ruin a man. What ’s your opinion, gentlemen 1 ” 

The other two agreed with him, and proposed that the 
decision of the question should be postponed until the next 
regular meeting of the board. The truth was, Phil was 
too valuable a man to lose. 

The foreman was deeply affected, but by % no means 
persuaded, by this unexpected kindness. He struggled a 
moment with his emotions, then said, “ Gentlemen, I 
thank you, this is so much more than I deserve, but 
it can’t be as you wish. If you won’t discharge me 
for the reasons I have given, then discharge me for 
my own sake. I can’t go on as if nothing had hap- 
pened. If I could exchange places with that dead boy 
under the ice, I should be contented, I should be quite 
happy. Since that can’t be, it seems to me that the only 
relief I can have will be in punishment. If I don’t have 
some outward punishment, my inward punishment will be 
too great to bear. Let me go to work by the day under 
some other foreman, if you still want to keep me.” 

“Very well, Kermer,” said the president. “ We don’t 
discharge you, mind, but we accept your resignation, since 
you insist upon it, and we hire you by the day.” 

“ Like any other laborer,” Kermer stipulated. 


IN THE ICE. 


231 


“ Like any other experienced laborer. You won’t object 
to having charge of a gang of men, under me, will you, 
till we can find another foreman ? I shall stay and look 
after the work myself for the present.” 

“I am at your service, gentlemen; drive me,” said 
Phil. 

And he looked as if he would like to be driven hard. 


VII. 

A FAREWELL AND AN APPARITION. 

The horses and scrapers were going again busily and 
cheerfully, as if nothing had happened, only half a dozen 
men remaining with the late foreman to sear.ch for the 
drowned body. It was a toilsome and discouraging task, 
and at last old man Dracutt, chilled and exhausted, con- 
sented to be taken home. 

“ I telled ’em so, I telled ’em so ! ” Farmer Corbett 
repeated every half-hour, as he watched the ineffectual rakes, 
lengthened out by the addition of poles lashed to the 
handles, working their way into deeper and deeper water. 
And it really began to appear that he was right in his con- 
jecture that Clint had gone down the steep slope beneath 
the unbroken ice. “ They won’t get him now, at all, — 
mark my word, boys, — not without he rises to the surface 
an’ freezes into the ice, where we may come acrost him 
when we come to cut.” 

As that day passed, and the next, and the third and 
fourth likewise, and the body was not found, the old man 
became triumphant, and offered to make large bets in 
support of his theory. He would, no doubt, have been. 


232 


IN THE ICE. 


deeply disappointed and chagrined if the body had turned 
up at last and proved him to be no true prophet. But 
that was not to be. On the fifth day the search was aban- 
doned, and he again had the satisfaction of reminding 
people, with his usual sagacious smirk and arrogant head- 
shake, that he “ telled ’em so.” 

The catastrophe soon ceased to be talked about. As 
the frozen surface of the pond was suffered to close over 
the spot, so the ice of oblivion seemed soon to form over 
the memory of poor Clint. The groups of skaters, once 
his daily companions, flying, on swift, ringing irons, along 
that shore, and sometimes pausing to observe, one to an- 
other, “I wonder whereabouts under us Clint Dracutt 
is ! ” then speeding on again joyous as ever, were types of 
the world out of whose busy and careless life he had dis- 
appeared. Will more be said of you and me, think you, 
0 my friend ! when the universal icy tablet is laid over 
our heads also ? 

There were three or four hearts, however (may we hope 
for as many such, and be grateful), that did not forget the 
unlucky youth so readily. Upon his grandparents, left 
now to their dumb and wretched loneliness, the loss had 
of course fallen most heavily. Yet there was one other to 
whom it occasioned even greater suffering, though in a 
different way. This was Phil Kermer. He had been 
really attached to Clint, and would have missed him under 
any circumstances that might have separated them ; but 
the sting lay deeper than that, — he felt that he was re- 
sponsible for the boy’s death. With him, therefore, mere 
regret was consumed in burning remorse. 

It was a terrible thing to Phil to be obliged to give up 
all hope of recovering the body. He regretted now that 
he had consented to remain upon the pond at all. Every 
day, and every hour of the day, he was reminded of the 


IN THE ICE. 


233 


death which his conscience told him his own negligence 
and unkindness had caused. It seemed to him that he 
was constantly walking over the grave of his murdered 
friend. Pass where he would on the ice, there the dead 
face seemed to rise beneath it, and with upturned eyes and 
still, livid lips reproach him for his crime. And he was 
now helping to make merchandise of that ice. The 
thought of it became intolerable to him ; the very sight 
of the pond, which had before been his delight, filled him 
with loathing. 

Everybody noticed the change that had come over the 
late foreman, and he had the sympathy and respect of the 
entire community. Emma Welford heard of it, and she 
longed inexpressibly to see him once more and speak to 
him one little word of comfort ; all the interest she had 
ever felt in him, all the tenderness he had ever inspired, 
returning with tenfold force upon her heart, now that she 
knew he was unhappy. 

It was generally believed that Kermer was working his 
way back gradually and surely to the place which he had 
felt obliged temporarily to resign. A week, two weeks, 
passed ; no other foreman was engaged, and the ice was 
at last thick enough to cut. It was Saturday evening, and 
on Monday morning, if no more snow should fall in the inte- 
rim, the harvesting of the crystal crop was to begin. As 
Phil was leaving the pond at dusk, the president stopped 
him and put a letter into his hand. 

“ Think of it till Monday,” said he, “ then give us your 
answer.” 

Phil went into the tool-house, struck a light, and read 
the letter. It was a formal proposition for him to resume 
his former duties as foreman, with an increased salary. 

He put the letter into his pocket, extinguished the light, 
locked up the tool-house, and went home. He did not 


234 


IN THE ICE. 


wait till Monday, however, before coming to a decision. 
Before he slept that night his mind was made up. He 
determined to decline the offer and to leave the pond. 

In leaving the pond, he would, of course, leave the 
town ; for what would then be left to hold him there but 
those painful associations from which he was growing mor- 
bidly anxious to be free 1 But, before going, he felt he 
had a duty to fulfil. He had never yet had the courage to 
visit Clint’s grandparents since the accident ; he would do 
so now. And Emma, — ought he not to see her once more 
and acknowledge to her that she had always been right 
with regard to his one dangerous habit, and then bid her a 
final adieu 1 

The next day he wrote his letter, formally and positively 
declining the company’s proposition, and in the evening set 
out to make his farewell calls. “ Emma first,” thought 
Phil, with a strange swelling of the heart. 

It was a clear January night ; beautiful, still moonlight 
on the beautiful, still snow. Phil’s shadow glided beside him 
as he walked, and a darker shadow than that dogged his 
every step, — the memory of Clint. It was only two weeks 
since they had met together in that house, and then the 
boy had been in the man’s way. What would not the man 
have given to have the boy in his way again to-night ! 

It is true, a horrible temptation beset Kermer as he 
approached and saw the light in the windows, and all his 
old feelings toward Emma surged up again. He believed 
that she would have married Clint, if he had lived. Now 
that Clint was gone, perhaps he, Phil — But he would 
not allow the thought to shape itself in his mind. To 
profit in any way by the boy’s death would, he felt, make 
him a murderer indeed. “ No, no ! ” thought he, crushing 
down his heart as it rose rebelliously ; “this very thing 
makes a union with her utterly and forever impossible ; I 


IN THE ICE. 


235 


should always feel that I had gained her by getting rid of 
Clint. I won’t forget this now when I come to see her.” 
And he did not forget it. 

They met almost in silence at the door, so much were 
they overcome by the emotions the occasion called up in 
each. The children ran to him, as of old ; and Sissy, 
remembering the fun she had the last time he was there, 
asked for Clint. “ What have you done with Clint 1 Did 
you put him down under the ithe 'l Won’t the fitheth bite 
him there 1 ” 

“ Hush, hush,” said Emma ; while poor Phil was unable 
to speak a word. 

But the little chatterbox ran on. She wished to know 
how Clint could get up to heaven, now that the ice was 
thick and hard all over him, and would Phil cut a hole to 
let him pass through 1 

“ I with he would n’t go to heaven,” she said ; “ for I 
want him to come and make a wheelbarrow of Tommy, and 
let me be a bag of potatoeth, and thell me like he did lath 
time. Will you let me be a bag of potatoeth, Mithta Phil ] ” 

But Phil, cut to the heart by the innocent prattle, said 
he didn’t believe he could make a wheelbarrow; besides, 
the blacksmith’s shop (namely* the old grandfather) had 
gone to call on a sick neighbor ; then what would they 
do if the wheelbarrow should break down 1 So Sissy 
was put off, and the children were soon sent out of the 
room. 

Then Phil told Emma of his determination to leave 
town, probably never to return. She had not expected 
that. She had hoped that he had come to say something 
very, very different. Why did he go 1 she asked. And 
he told her something of what he had suffered. 

“ But we all know it was an accident ; then why do yon 
blame yourself so \ ” 


236 


IN THE ICE. 


“ Because I am to blame,” answered Kermer, with sol- 
emn self-condemnation. “And that brings me to speak of 
what I have come to say to you to-night.” 

What could that be, if he had not said it already 1 
Emma could not conceal her agitation. Never before, had 
she felt so powerfully attracted toward this man. Suffer- 
ing had softened him ; his old self-complacency had van- 
ished, and in its place humility, and charity, and sweetness 
of spirit surrounded him with their warm and living at- 
mosphere. This change in himself, together with a similar 
change in her, perhaps (for she too had suffered), rendered 
him more than ever susceptible to the charm of her pres- 
ence, and he felt compelled to keep a fast hold in his mind 
upon his strong resolution, to avoid yielding to that influence. 

After a pause, holding her hand and looking into her 
eyes, he said to her : “I thought I ought to acknowledge 
to you, before I go, that you were altogether right in what 
you required of me, and that I was altogether wrong. It 
may seem a mere mockery for me to make that confession 
now ; it is too late for it to do anybody any good. Yet I 
felt I ought to make it.” 

Why was it too late 1 Why did he go, now that the only 
obstacle that had before separated them seemed to be re- 
moved 1 for he declared that he had forsworn his habit of 
dissipation forever. The real cause of his leaving her was 
too painful a subject for him to talk about, and he could 
only say that he went “ because he must.” Then the con- 
clusion was forced upon her that he did not care for her 
any more; that he had, perhaps, never really cared for 
her, and her womanly pride was roused, giving her un- 
natural strength for the separation. She was wonder- 
fully dignified and cold till he had reached the door ; then 
he opened his arms, and she fell sobbing upon his breast. 
He kissed her once and again, and breathed forth I know 


IN THE ICE. 


237 


not what passionate parting words with his farewell, then 
hurriedly departed from the house, like a strong man flee- 
ing from a great temptation. 

In the street, he did not know what to do with himself. 
He felt more utterly forlorn and desolate than he had ever 
believed it possible for a man to be and live. “ Go back 
to her ! ” whispered one passion in his breast. “ Go to the 
bar-room!” whispered another and darker passion. He 
resisted both. 

He could not go at once and make his farewell call on 
the old couple, and so he wandered down a lane that led to 
the pond. Why he should choose to revisit at that time a 
scene which he could not behold without a pang, it is not 
easy to say. But sometimes pain itself, especially when 
associated with some object of affection or respect, has a 
fascination for us. 

He went down to the shore, and stood by a high board 
fence that served as a shelter to a farmer’s hot-beds, — the 
wintry sky above him cloudless and pure ; before him the 
cold, shining silence of the moonlit ice. There were no 
skaters on the pond that night, and its stillness was 
broken only by its own wild and solitary noises. 

As Phil was gazing in the direction of the spot where 
the catastrophe had occurred, he became all at once aware 
of what seemed a human figure walking on that part of the 
pond. In a little while, it appeared to be approaching him. 
Nearer and nearer it came, until he thought he ought to 
catch the sound of footsteps, but not a sound was heard. 
Silently as a ghost, out of the ghostly silence it came, glid- 
ing along the ice. Now it stood still, and now it threw out 
its arms wildly and beat its breast. And now it assumed 
to the eyes of the amazed spectator a mien and shape that 
made his blood run cold, — the mien and shape of the 
drowned youth, Clinton Dracutt ! 


238 


IN THE ICE. 


VIII. 

UNCLE JIM’S EVENING CALL. 

Again that Sunday evening old man Dracutt and his 
wife sat together by their lonely kitchen fire, but with no 
Clinton now to come in and break the awful silence and 
monotony of their lives. The lamp had not been lighted ; 
only the moonlight lay upon the floor, and the still white- 
ness of the winter’s night filled the room with its pallid 
reflection. 

The old man sat in his chair erect, but looking more 
crushed together in the neck and jaws than ever, while his 
wife appeared bent by an added load of trouble. There 
was utter silence, except that now and then a soft, low sob 
was heard ; the old lady was thinking of that night two 
weeks ago, and weeping. Then, ever and anon, from with- 
out came a deep, muffled, reverberating roar or groan, as 
if Nature herself sympathized with their woe. If it had 
been summer, you would have said it thundered. But it 
was the pond complaining, the thick-ribbed ice shudder- 
ing and moaning under the cold, starry night. Every sud- 
den, prolonged peal reached the ears of the lonely old 
couple in the bereaved house, reminding them of their 
loss. 

They had not spoken to each other yet, nor had there 
been much need that they should speak, so well had they 
learned in all those years to understand each other with- 
out words. But they had shown in many ways that they 
felt more kindly toward each other since this great afflic- 
tion came upon them. And now, old lady Dracutt sitting 
there, weeping, in the gloom, longed to speak once more 
to her husband, and to hear his voice. 


IN THE ICE. 


239 


She was ready to say, “ Forgive me, Jonathan,” but was 
afraid to utter the words. How strangely they would sound, 
breaking the unnatural silence that had kept them dumb to 
each other for twelve years ! Again and again she tried 
to speak, but could not bring her tongue to shape the 
syllables ; it seemed paralyzed ; she began to feel a strange, 
benumbing fear that she would never have power to break 
that silence, that it had been taken from her as a punish- 
ment for her long sin of wilfulness and hard-heartedness 
toward him. 

While she was thus struggling ineffectually with herself, 
suddenly another voice broke the spell which she could 
not, — to her terror and joy, her husband’s voice. 

“ I have been thinking, Jane — ” said he, and stopped. 

“ 0 Jonathan! you have spoken!” she cried out, with 
a wild sob. “God bless you, God bless you, Jona- 
than ! ” 

“Jane, I thought I had better speak,” said the old man 
in a trembling voice. “ I have been wantin’ to for many 
days. I think I have been wrong, Jane.” 

“ Don’t say it, don’t say it, Jonathan,” said the old lady, 
sinking to the floor, and throwing her clasped hands across 
his knees. “ I should have asked your forgiveness. I have 
tried to. I was trying to now, when you spoke. 0 Jona- 
than, Jonathan ! ” 

“ God forgive us ! I think we have both been wrong, but 
I have been most in the wrong,” said the old man. Then 
a long silence followed, broken by sighs and sobs, and the 
moaning peals of the pond. 

“ I ’ve been thinkin’,” resumed the old man, — she was 
at last seated by his side once more, and her hand was in 
his, — “ that I can’t, somehow, bear to have Clinton’s mem- 
ory passed over in this way. I think we ought to have 
funeral sarvices for him, even without — ” 


240 


IN THE ICE. 


“Yes,” said she, “ I have felt so, too. It will be some 
satisfaction. I said as much to Cousin James.” 

“ He told me you did. He told me, too, what you said 
about my blaming myself so much on account of the boy. 
And it touched me, it touched me ; I did n’t desarve that 
you should feel and speak so kindly.” 

“But, Jonathan,” replied Jane, wiping her eyes, “you 
said nothin’ to him that night that it was n’t your duty to 
say. I felt that, though I hated to have him hurt.” 

“ I don’t know, I don’t know. If I had been different, 
he might have been different. No wonder he was cross 
sometimes. It ’s the hardest thing for me to reconcile my- 
self to the fact that my last word to him was unkind. 
He would n’t have gone off on the pond so the next mornin’ 
without speakin’ to us, if it had n’t been for that. I thought 
’t was my duty to reprimand him, and maybe it was. But 
my first duty was to set him an example of cheerfulness 
and good temper. What could we expect of him as long 
as we two were at enmity 1 ” And the old man ended with 
a groan. 

While they were talking, there came a rap at the door. 
The old man said, “ Walk in,” while the old lady made 
haste to light a lamp. 

“ It ’s nobody but me ; don’t light up for me,” said a 
familiar voice, as the tall form of a hale old man appeared 
in the doorway. 

“ Cousin James ! ” said the old lady, still opening the 
wick with the lighted match. 

“ At this time o’ night, and with a knock ! ” said old 
man Dracutt, pushing a chair toward the visitor. 

“ I knocked because I — I rather thought ye had com- 
pany,” said James, glancing his eye about the room as he 
sat down. 

“You heard talkin’, I s’pose,” said old man Dracutt. 


IN THE ICE. 


241 


“ Ye need n’t be surprised at it. ’T was nobody but Jane 
and me.” 

“ Praise the Lord ! ” exclaimed Uncle Jim (for we like 
best the name the young folks called him by). “ Bless ye, 
Jonathan ; bless ye, Jane. I hoped this sorrow would bring 
you closer together, and I see it has.” 

“ It has, it has ! ” said Jane. 

“ God’s ways are not our ways,” said Uncle Jim, with 
deep emotion. “ He has done it. He meant it all for your 
good.” 

“ I believe so,” replied Jane. “ We have had comfort in 
each other to-night, such as we have n’t had for twenty 
year. But, 0 James ! at what a cost ! I ’ve been thinkin’ 
the sunshine could n’t melt us, and so God sent his light- 
nin’. If w r e had n’t been so hard-hearted, then our boy 
might have been spared to us.” 

“ But you will soon become reconciled to his loss,” said 
Unlce Jim, philosophically — so very philosophically, in- 
deed, that old man Dracutt looked at him with reproach* 
ful surprise. 

“ That can never be, James. There ’s only one thing now 
that can be any satisfaction to us. This week the ice will 
be cut over all that part of the pond. He may be found, 
froze into it. If not, then we must have funeral sarvices, 
jest the same as if he was. What ails ye, James ? Ye 
don’t listen to me. I thought ye approved of the idee of a 
funeral.” 

“So I do — that is, so I should — hem ! ” coughed Uncle 
Jim, using his handkerchief, fidgeting in his chair, and 
behaving strangely in other ways. “ But I would n’t hurry 
about it. There ’s no knowin’, ye know — he may be found 
yet — and — hem ! — the fact is, there ’s no sartinty — no 
positive sartinty — that he’s drownded, ye know, Jona- 
than.” 


11 


p 


242 


IN THE ICE. 


“ I wish I did know it,” said Jonathan, somewhat 
startled. “ If I could think there was a particle of hope ! 
James,” he went on, with increasing agitation, “what have 
you come here for this time o’ the evenin’ ] You don’t act 
your nat’ral self. There ’s somethin’ — ” 

“Yes, there is somethin’,” Uncle Jim replied, “and I 
want you to be prepared for ’t.” 

“ For Heaven’s sake, James ! ” said the old lady, “ what is 
it ] Have they found the poor boy’s body ] ” 

“ Not — not exactly that. I tell ye,” Uncle Jim cleared 
his throat again, “there’s no positive sartinty about his 
bein’ drownded. The men said he was on the ice jest a few 
seconds before it broke up ; but, don’t you see, men can’t 
have much recollection with regard to time, after such an 
accident 1 What seemed to them a few seconds, when they 
thought on ’t afterwards, might have been a few minutes ; 
in fact, might have been five, ten minutes. Have ye 
thought of that]” 

“Yes, yes. But all the sarcumstances, James, — they 
are agin the supposition. Where could the poor boy be, 
if not there ] He could n’t have gone off. He had no 
money about him. Then, agin, the hammers, James ! ” 

“ The hammers ! — hem ! — yes, Jonathan,” said Uncle 
Jim, in the awkwardest manner, and with the strangest 
blending of cheerfulness and anxiety in his kind old face, 
“about the hammers. Something has come to light with 
regard to them ; and that ’s one thing I ’ve come to tell you. 
Whatever has become of Clinton, they have n’t gone to the 
bottom of the pond, that ’s a sartin case.” 

“ How do you know ] ” cried old man Dracutt, almost 
fiercely. 

“ I was told so, on good authority, this very evenin’. I 
know jest where them hammers are. They are lyin’ in a 
corner of the fence, a few rods beyond the tool-house. 


IN THE ICE. 


243 


The very hammers, I know it. The snow prevented ’em 
from bein’ discovered before.” 

“Clinton! Clinton! then he may be alive !” broke 
forth the old lady, with sudden and wild hope. 

“ It is more than probable. In fact, a — person — has 
been heard from, up in New Hampshire, who answers his 
description. A young man come to town this evenin’ and 
brought the news. He ’ll be here in a few minutes. Be 
calm, Jane, I — I believe he is cornin’ now ! ” (Footsteps in 
the creaking snow outside.) “So, do be composed, Jona- 
than ! You know now who it is ! ” as the door opened. 

“ Clinton ! ” shrieked the old lady, tottering forward, 
and falling on the new-comer’s neck, with hysterical sobs. 

It was Clinton, sure enough, and Phil Kermer with him. 


IX. 

HOW CLINTON MISSED A RARE CHANCE. 

A word now (while the old couple are recovering from 
their shock of joy) with regard to the young man’s reap- 
pearance. 

The reader has, of course, divined that the ghost Phil 
saw on the ice was no other than Clint himself. He 
crossed the pond because it was the nearest way home. 
When he stood still, he was hesitating whether to go on to 
the lane, or to take a still more direct course over Mr. 
Jones’s farm. He had on india-rubber shoes, and they 
muffled the sound of his footsteps, preventing them from 
being heard until he was quite near. When he flung out his 
arms and beat his breast, he was simply whipping his sides 
to warm his hands. You may be sure that Phil did not 


244 


IN THE ICE. 


long remain in doubt as to the real nature of the appari- 
tion; and that he was thrilled with something besides 
fear, when, calling out in a loud voice from the shore, “ Is 
that you, Clinton Dracutt 1 ” he received the characteristic 
response, in gross mortal accents, “ I bet ye ! That you, 
Phil Kermer ? ” 

When the first surprise of their meeting was over, and 
Phil had got from Clint a brief account of his disappear- 
ance, and Clint had learned (for the first time) from Phil 
that he was supposed to be drowned, they walked up the 
lane toward the Dracutt house. But now it occurred to 
Phil that the grandson’s sudden reappearance unannounced 
might be even a more, dangerous shock to the old couple 
than the report of his death had been. He remembered 
that Uncle Jim was close by, spending the evening with 
Mr. J ones, a sick neighbor ; and he thought it would be 
peculiarly appropriate that he who had broken to them 
the bad news should now convey to them the antidote. 

They met Uncle Jim just as he was coming out of Neigh- 
bor Jones’s door. He went back into the house with them, 
where he remained to recover a little from his astonishment, 
and to hear enough of Clint’s story to enable him to unfold 
the truth by degrees to the old couple ; then set out on 
his new mission. Phil waited for him to do his errand, 
and for Clint to get warm by Mrs. Jones’s fire, and to eat 
a leg of cold turkey from Mrs. Jones’s larder, then took 
him home, entering the house with him, as we have seen. 

Clint was looking well, but rather shabby. He was in* 
dined to swagger a little, and to show a manly distaste 
for the fuss made over him. Old man Dracutt scarcely 
uttered a word, but appeared fairly dazed by what seemed 
to him more a dream of his grandson’s return than a 
reality, and stood with silent tears coursing down his aged 
cheeks. The old lady kissed the boy often enough for 


IN THE ICE. 


245 


both ; and repeated again and again the question before 
he could get breath between the caresses to answer it, 
“ Where have you been, Clinton 1 Clinton, 0 Clinton ! 
where have you been 1 ” 

“ Not to the bottom of the pond, by a long chalk ! ” 
said Clint, getting away from her, and seating himself, 
while all sat around him, in the dimly lighted kitchen. 
“ I never went back on to the ice at all, after I left Phil. 
I just went the other way, as fast as ever my legs could 
carry me ; and pitched those hammers into a corner of the 
fence, the first thing. I had no idea where I was going ; 
but I was so disgusted with everybody and everything, 
and myself in particular, that all I thought of was to get 
away out of sight, somewhere. 

“ I had n’t gone far when a man came along in a buggy. 
‘ Give me a ride 1 ’ says I. ‘ Hop in,’ says he. ‘ Rather 
hard travelling,’ says I. ‘Yes,’ says he ; ‘ I got caught by 
the snow last night ; that comes,’ says he, ‘ of travelling 
on Sunday.’ We got acquainted as we rode along, and I 
found out he was a horse-doctor, and that he lived at the 
Port. I said I was going there to look for a situation, 
and told him I knew a good deal more about horses than I 
suppose was exactly consistent with the truth. You see, 
as he talked horse, I talked horse out of sympathy. We 
made a few stops, and got to his house about noon ; then 
he asked me to dinner ; and after dinner he said he could 
give me a job if I would like one. He had a pair of horses 
on his hands that he wanted to send up into New Hampshire 
to be boarded for the winter ; and offered me five dollars 
if I would go and take care of them on the way. He paid 
me in advance ; and the next day I started, went by rail- 
road, and got to the place the next night. It was a coun- 
try tavern ; and the landlord said he could n’t keep the 
team, although he had agreed to, for his hostler had just 


246 


IN THE ICE. 


left him, and he didn’t know about hiring another. 
‘ Maybe,’ says I, ‘you ’d like to hire meT We struck a 
bargain in about a minute, and I went to work, thinking 
I was going to be in clover. 

“ I stayed with him till yesterday morning, when I left 
in a hurry. I could n’t stand it any longer. I tell ye, 
’t was rough. Big job and small pay. I began to think 
of home, and came to the conclusion I ’d been a dunce to 
leave it.” 

“But why did you leave it, Clint V’ asked Phil. “Your 
getting angry with me was no good reason.” 

“ Well, I had got mad with the old folks too.” 

“ But was there nobody else you cared for 1 ” 

“ Well — yes — no — fact is,” said Clint, “ there was 
another thing that disgusted me. You know you left me 
the night before with — you know who. Well, I may as 
well own it, I stayed and made a fool of myself. She 
did n’t care that for me,” Clint snapped his fingers. “ I 
found ’t was somebody else she cared for ; and that some- 
body else made me mad as fury, next morning, in the 
tool-house.” 

Phil rose somewhat hurriedly after this, and took his 
hat. 

“ Don’t go ! ” cried Clint. “ That ’s all right now, ye 
know.” 

“ Yes ; glad you ’ve forgiven me. But I — I ’ve a little 
matter of business to look after. And as I ’ve heard the 
rest of your story, I ’ll see you in the morning, Clint.” 

With these words, Phil hastened away, to look after the 
“ little matter of business ” that had so suddenly claimed 
his attention, leaving Clint to relate to the old people how 
he had that day walked all the way from the Port, and 
met the late foreman, after crossing the pond. 

“ So you thought I was in the ice, this winter, with 


IN THE ICE. 


247 


a vengeance, did ye ? Now, if that a’n’t the coolest 
joke ! ” 

“ Yes,” said Uncle Jim, “ and we were talkin’ about 
havin’ a funeral sermon preached for you.” 

Whereupon the young man almost went into convul- 
sions of laughter. 

“ I wish I ’d known it. I ’d have stayed away, put on 
false whiskers and goggles, and come to my own funeral. 
Would n’t it have been rich? ’T a’n’t often a man can do 
that. Wonder if the minister would have made me out a 
saint ? Ho, ho, ho ! Why did n’t I know of it, and come 
to my own funeral ? There never was such a rare chance 
for sport, and, by George, I ’ve missed it ! ” 


X. 

A GOLDEN WEDDING, AFTER ALL. 

In the mean while, Mr. Phil Kermer walked very fast, 
and in a very extraordinary direction for a man of business 
at that time of night, namely, to Uncle Jim’s door, when 
he knew very well that Uncle Jim was n’t at home. He 
seemed to think it necessary that Emma should be at 
once informed of the joyful news of Clint’s resurrection. It 
was joyful news, indeed, his coming conveyed to her, 
when the door opened, and he himself appeared almost 
like one raised from the dead, to eyes even then red with 
weeping — not for Clint. 

When Uncle Jim returned home, and found a happy 
couple sitting up for him (of course, they could n’t have 
been sitting up for anything else at that time of night), 
Mr. Phil’s little matter of business seemed to have been 
quite satisfactorily arranged. 


248 


IN THE ICE. 


One other little matter remained for Phil to attend to, 
on reaching his own lodgings ; which was, to destroy the 
letter he had written to the president of the Ice Com- 
pany, and to write another, in its place, which consisted of 
two words, simply : — 

“ I accept” 

The next day Phil entered on his new duties as foreman, 
with an energy that augured well for his own future and 
for the interests of the company. 

The harvest had begun ; an army of men and horses 
were at work, cutting fields of ice into checkers, and 
breaking up these checkers into blocks to be raised by 
machinery, and stored in the great ice-houses ; when, to- 
ward noon, Farmer Corbett, who had been kept away from 
the pond by an attack of rheumatism, came limping along, 
with a puckered and suffering countenance, to see what 
was going on. 

“We ’ve begun to cut, you see,” said Phil. “ And Clint 
has been found.” 

“ You don’t say ! Where 1 ” 

“ I discovered him, when taking a look at the ice off 
Jones’s shore.” 

“ I telled ye so ! I telled ye so ! ” said the prophet, 
although the spot indicated was half a mile from the deep 
water which his theory favored. “ Exac’ly where I said. 
Froze in the ice, was n’t he 1 Ye remember what I telled 
ye.” 

“Not precisely frozen into the ice, — he was walking on 
the ice,” said Phil. 

“ Not drownded 1 ” cried the old farmer, with alarm. 

“Not a bit of it ; but alive and well, Mr. Corbett.” 

Whereat the prophet’s countenance, which had bright- 
ened wonderfully a moment before, assumed once more its 
puckered and suffering expression, and he was observed to 


IN THE ICE. 


249 


limp away more painfully than ever. At first, he pro- 
fessed an utter disbelief in Clint’s return to life, declaring 
it to be “ agin natux’, and agin reason ” ; but after he had 
beheld with his own eyes the miracle of the young man 
moving about bodily on the pond (for Clint was “ in the 
ice” again, with his friend Phil), he consoled himself by 
saying that “ if the feller had ’a’ been drownded, he ’d ’a’ 
been found exac’ly as he telled ’em.” 

Clint got along very well with Phil, and, consequently, 
with everybody else on the pond, after this. We must 
here do him the justice to add, that he gets along very 
well with the old folks too. A fortnight’s rough experience 
as hostler and man-of-all-work in a country tavern, under 
a hard master, had prepared him to appreciate the privi- 
leges and comforts of home ; while the great change that 
had taken place in his grandparents did much to bring 
about a reform of manners in him. 

Clint missed th^ chance of attending his own funeral, 
but he had something, perhaps, quite as good in its stead. 

“ Did you think, Jonathan,” said old lady Dracutt, one 
day, “ that that was the fiftieth anniversary of our weddin’ 
the night ’fore Clinton went away.” 

“Yes ; and I ’ve thought on ’t a good deal sence,” replied 
the old man. “ I ’m sorry it should have passed so. 
Some people have a golden weddin’ on that anniversary. 
I don’t think we desarve a golden weddin’ exactly ; but if 
any old couple ever needed to set the example of bein’ 
married over agin, in a new sperit, it ’s you and me, Jane. 
Don’t you think so 1 ” 

“I do ! I do ! *1 wish that anniversary was n’t past ; 
though maybe it a’n’t too late to have our golden weddin’ 
now. Our unnat’ral way of livin’ together has been known 
to everybody so long, I feel as if I ’d like to make some 
public profession of our change of feelin’s, — jest have our 
11 * 


250 


IN THE ICE. 


friends come in and see us married over agin, in a better 
sperit, as you say.” 

Friends favored the idea, and proffered their assistance ; 
and so it happened that, instead of a funeral in the old 
Dracutt house, there was, before many days, a golden 
wedding. 

The peculiar circumstances of the occasion invested it 
with extraordinary interest; everybody seemed eager to 
witness the second marriage of an aged couple who had 
lived separated under the same roof, without speaking to 
each other, for so many years. Their first marriage, fifty 
years before, had been called a romantic one ; but this, all 
things considered, was even more romantic — it was cer- 
tainly far more significant — than that. 

Old and young were present, a houseful of guests, — 
those who had lived through the great experience of 
wedded life, and those who were just entering upon it, 
with youthful passions and rainbow-colored hopes. Nor 
were absent little children, yet innocent of the sweet but 
awful knowledge of love. All Emma’s little flock were 
there, even down to little Sissy, whose dancing, golden 
curls and cherubic cheeks presented a strange contrast to 
the gray hairs and wrinkles of the aged pair. Dear, laugh- 
ter-loving child ! the world was all before her now, while 
they were leaving it fast behind them. Little she thought 
that she would ever grow old, and grizzled, and infirm, like 
them. Yet that aged bride, so bent, was once a beauteous, 
beaming child like her; and who knows what shadowy 
cares may come on the wings of the swift years to darken 
and trouble that little one’s dream of life 1 For when 
seventy birthdays more shall have passed over her, and 
her golden wedding-day shall have come, and she looks 
back to thip day, will the long life between, with all its 
joys and disappointments, seem anything else but a 
dream 1 


IN THE ICE. 


251 


All the old people who could be found, that had been 
present at Jonathan and Jane’s first wedding, were invited 
to this ; and, strange and sad to say, only four out of all 
that happy company could be obtained, — three besides 
Cousin Jim ! What a solemn commentary was that upon 
the fleeting shows of the world ! If length of years and 
worldly pleasure and gain were all of life, it would not 
seem to amount to very much, after all, — do you really 
think it would, my octogenarian friend 1 

It was a sad though happy occasion to the aged bride 
s&d bridegroom ; and when, after the wedding ceremony, 
friends crowded around to congratulate them, they could 
not refrain from tears. 

“ I feel,” said old man Dracutt, “ that we are married 
now, not for time, but for etamity. I don’t regret that life 
is short, but that so much of our life has been misspent.” 

“ Don’t say your experience of life has not been good 
and useful to you,” cried cheery old Uncle Jim. “ I ’m 
sartin it has.” 

“Yes, in one respect it surely has,” said Jane, smiling 
through her tears. “ The habit of not speaking to each 
other, under any provocation, beats everything in the way 
of discipline I .ever heard of. It has given me a command 
of my own temper, which maybe I could never have got 
in any other way. Try it, you that need such a discipline, 
— but not in the way we did. 0, if people would only 
learn to do for love what we did for pride and resentment, 
and bridle the tongue , what a mortal Paradise married life 
might be ! ” 

“ Wal, wal!” cried Uncle Jim, determined that the occa~ 
sion should pass off joyously ; “ I don’t see but what you 
have about as much to be thankful for as any of us. Clint 
has come home all the wiser for his little trip up into 
New Hampshire, and — ” 


252 


IN THE ICE. 


“And we have got out of the ice, too,” said old man 
Dracutt, smiling; “for it was us that was froze all the 
time, without knowin’ it.” 

“Yes, yes; but you’re thawed out now, and all our 
hearts are softer and better for your experience. Old age 
a’n’t such a bad thing ; I want our young friends here to 
learn from us to-night that it a’n’t. I believe that I grow 
cheerfuller than ever as I grow older; and it will always 
be so, if we only learn to regard life, not as a thing to be 
prized and clung to for itself alone, but only as a disci- 
pline, as you say, Jane, — only as a discipline and a prepa- 
ration for a higher and happier futur’.” 

“ If I can get to look at it in that way, then I sha’ n’t feel 
that so much of my life has been wasted,” said the bride- 
groom, shaking Uncle Jim’s hand. “ But, 0 my friends ! ” 
shaking hands with the younger guests, “may you be 
saved from the necessity of such a discipline as we have 
had ! To avoid that, take from me one word of advice, 
especially you that are about to marry : never let any- 
thing stand in the way of perfect harmony and trust in 
one another ; but give up everything, give up every- 
thing for love ! ” 

I don’t know how it happened, but the old man looked 
very particularly at Emma Welford and Phil Kermer as 
he said this. 


KARCY BLYKEPS LOYERS. 



ILLIAM TANSLEY, familiarly called Tip, having 


V V finished his afternoon’s work in Judge Boxton’s 
garden, milked the cows, and given the calves and pigs 
their supper, — not forgetting to make sure of his own, — 
stole out of the house with his Sunday jacket, and the 
secret intention of going “ a sparking.” 

Tip’s manner of setting about this delicate business was 
characteristic of his native shrewdness. He usually went 
well provided with gifts ; and on the present occasion, 
before quitting the Judge’s premises, he “ drew upon ” a 
certain barrel in the barn, which was his bank, where he 
had made, during the day, frequent deposits of green corn, 
of the diminutive species called tucket , smuggled in from 
the garden, and designed for roasting and eating with the 
Widow Blynn’s pretty daughter. Stealthily, in the dusk, 
stopping now and then to listen, Tip brought out the little 
milky ears from beneath the straw, crammed his pockets 
with them, and packed full the crown of his old straw hat ; 
then, with the sides of his jacket distended, his trousers 
bulged, and a toppling weight on his head, he peeped cau- 
tiously from the door to see that the way was clear for an 
escape to the orchard, and thence, “’cross lots,” to the 
Widow Blynn’s house. 

Tip was creeping furtively behind a wall, stooping, with 
one hand steadying his hat and the other his pockets, 
when a voice called his name. 


254 


NANCY BLYNN’S LOVERS. 


It was the voice of Cephas Boxton. Now if there was a 
person in the world whom Tip feared and hated, it was 
“that Cephe,” and this for many reasons, the chief of 
which was that the Judge’s son did, upon occasions, flirt 
with Miss Nancy Blynn, who, sharing the popular preju- 
dice in favor of fine clothes and riches, preferred, appar- 
ently, a single passing glance from Cephas to all Tip’s gifts 
and attentions. 

Tip dropped down behind the wall. 

“ Tip Tansley ! ” again called the hated voice. 

But the proprietor of that euphonious name, not choosing 
to answer to it, remained quiet, one hand still supporting 
his hat, the other his pockets, while young Boxton, to 
whom glimpses of the aforesaid hat, appearing over the 
edge of the wall, had previously been visible, stepped 
quickly and noiselessly to the spot. Tip crouched, with his 
unconscious eyes in the grass ; Cephas watched him good- 
humoredly, leaning over the wall. 

“If it is n’t Tip, what is it 1 ” And Cephas struck one 
side of the distended jacket with his cane. An ear of corn 
dropped out. He struck the other side, and out dropped 
another ear. A couple of smart blows across the back suc- 
ceeded, followed by more corn ; and at the same time Tip, 
getting up, and endeavoring to protect his pockets, let go 
his hat, which fell off, spilling its contents in the grass. 

“Did you calll” gasped the panic-stricken Tip. 

The rivals stood with the wall between them, — as ludi- 
crous a contrast, I dare assert, as ever two lovers of one 
woman presented. 

Tip, abashed and afraid, brushed the hair out of his 
eyes, and made an unsuccessful attempt to look the hand- 
some and smiling Cephas in the face. 

“Do you pretend you did not hear — with all these 
ears ? ” said the Judge’s son. 


NANCY BLYNN’S LOVERS. 


255 


“ 1 — I was huntin’ fur a shoestring,” murmured Tip, 
casting dismayed glances along the ground. “ I lost one 
here som’eres.” 

“ Tip,” said Cephas, putting his cane under Master Tans- 
ley’s chin to assist him in holding up his head, “ look me 
in the eye, and tell me, — what is the difference ’twixt you 
and that corn 1 ” 

“I d’n’ know — whatl” And, liberating his chin, Tip 
dropped his head again, and began kicking in the grass in 
search of the imaginary shoestring. 

“ That is lying on the ground, and you are lying — on 
your feet,” said Cephas. 

Tip replied that he was going to the woods for bean- 
poles, and that he took the corn to feed the cattle in the 
“ back pastur’, ’cause they hooked.” 

“ I wish you were as innocent of hooking as the cattle 
are ! ” said the incredulous Cephas. “ Go and put the sad- 
dle on Pericles.” 

Tip proceeded in a straight line to the stable, his pock- 
ets dropping corn by the way; while Cephas, laughing 
quietly, walked up and down under the trees. 

“ Hoss ’s ready,” muttered Tip, from the barn door. 

Instead of leading Pericles out, he left him in the stall, 
and climbed up into the hayloft to hide, and brood over 
his misfortune until his rival’s departure. It was not alone 
the affair of the stolen corn that troubled Tip ; but from 
the fact that Pericles was ordered, he suspected that Ce- 
phas likewise purposed paying a visit to Nancy Blynn. 
Resolved to wait and watch, he lay under the dusty roof, 
chewing the bitter cud of envy, and now and then a stem of 
new-mown timothy, till Cephas entered the stalls beneath, 
and said “ Be still ! ” in his clear, resonant tones, to Pericles. # 

Pericles uttered a quick, low whinny of recognition, and 
ceased pawing the floor. 


256 


NANCY BLYNN’S LOVERS. 


“ Are you there, Cephas 1 ” presently said another voice. 

It was that of the Judge, who had followed his son into 
the barn. Tip lay with his elbows on the hay, and listened. 

“ Going to ride, are you ? Who saddled this horse 1 ” 

“ Tip,” replied Cephas. 

“ He did n’t half curry him. Wait a minute. I ’m 
ashamed to let a horse go out looking so.” 

And the Judge began to polish off Pericles with wisps of 
straw. 

“ Darned ef I care ! ” muttered Tip. 

“ Cephas,” said the Judge, “ I don’t want to make you 
vain, but I must say you ride the handsomest colt in the 
county. I ’m proud of Pericles. Does his shoe pinch him 
lately 1” 

“ Not since ’t was set. He looks well enough, father. 
Your eyes are better than mine,” said Cephas, “ if you can 
see any dust on his coat.” 

“ I luf to rub a colt, — it does ’em so much good,” rejoined 
the Judge. “ Cephas, if you ’re going by ’Squire Stedman’s, 
I ’d like to have you call and get that mortgage.” 

“ I don’t think I shall ride that way, father. I ’ll go for 
it in the morning, however.” 

“Never mind, unless you happen that way. Just hand 
me a wisp of that straw, Cephas.” 

Cephas handed his father the straw. The Judge rubbed 
away some seconds longer, then said carelessly, “ If you 
are going up the mountain, I wish you would stop and 
tell Colby I ’ll take those lambs, and send for ’em next 
week.” 

“ I ’m not sure that I shall go as far as Colby’s,” replied 
Cephas. 

“People say” — the Judge’s voice changed slightly — 
“ you don’t often get farther than the Widow Blynn’s when 
you travel that road. How is it 1 ” 


NANCY BLYNN’S LOVERS. 


257 


“ Ask the widow,” said Cephas. 

“Ask her daughter, more like,” rejoined the Judge. 
“ Cephas, I ’ve kind o’ felt as though I ought to have a 
little talk with you about that matter. I hope you a’n’t 
fooling the girl, Cephas.” 

And the Judge, having broached the subject to which 
all his rubbing had been introductory and his remarks a 
prologue, waited anxiously for his son’s reply. 

Cephas assured him that he could never be guilty of 
fooling any girl, much less one so worthy as Miss Nancy 
Blynn. 

“I’m glad to hear it!” exclaimed the Judge. “Of 
course I never believed you could do such a thing. But 
we should be careful of appearances, Cephas. (Just an- 
other little handful of straw ; that will do.) People have 
already got up the absurd story that you are going to 
marry Nancy.” 

Tip’s ears tingled. There was a brief silence, broken 
only by the rustling of the straw. Then Cephas said, 
“ Why absurd, father 1 ” 

“Absurd — because — why, of course it isn’t true, is 
it 

“ I must confess, father,” replied Cephas, “ the idea has 
occurred to me that Nancy — would make me — a good 
wife.” 

It is impossible to say which was most astonished by 
this candid avowal, the Judge or Master William Tansley. 
The latter had never once imagined that Cephas’s intentions 
respecting Nancy were so serious ; and now the inevitable 
conviction forced upon him, that, if his rich rival really 
wished to marry her, there was no possible chance left for 
him, smote his heart with qualms of despair. 

“Cephas, you stagger me!” said the Judge. “A 
young man of your education and prospects — ” 


258 


NANCY BLYNN’S LOVERS. 


“ Nancy is not without some education, father,” inter- 
posed Cephas, as the Judge hesitated. “ Better than that, 
she has heart and soul. She is worthy to be any man’s 
wife ! ” 

Although Tip entertained precisely the same opinions, 
he was greatly dismayed to hear them expressed so gener- 
ously by Cephas. 

The Judge rubbed away again at Pericles’s flanks and 
shoulders with wisps of straw. 

“No doubt, Cephas, you think so ; and I have n’t any- 
thing agin Nancy ; she ’s a good girl enough, fur ’s I 
know. But just reflect on ’t, — you ’re of age, and in one 
sense you can do as you please, but you a’n’t too old to 
hear to reason. You know you might marry ’most any 
girl you choose.” 

“ So I thought, and I choose Nancy,” answered Cephas, 
preparing to lead out Pericles. 

“ I wish the hoss ’d fling him, and break his neck ! ” 
whispered the devil in Tip’s heart. 

“Don’t be hasty; wait a minute, Cephas,” said the 
Judge. “You know what I mean, — you could marry 
rich. Take a practical view of the matter. Get rid of 
these boyish notions. Just think how it will look for a 
young man of your cloth — worth twenty thousand dollars 
any day I ’m a mind to give it to you — to go and marry 
the Widow Blynn’s daughter, — a girl that takes in sewing ! 
What are ye thinking of, Cephas ] ” 

“ I hear,” replied Cephas, quietly, “ she does her sewing 
well.” 

“ Suppose she does 1 She ’d make a good enough wife 
for some such fellow as Tip, no doubt; but I thought a 
son of mine would ha’ looked higher. Think of you and 
Tip after the same girl ! Come, if you ’ve any pride about 
you, you ’ll pull the saddle off the colt and stay at home.” 


NANCY BLYNN’S LOVERS. 


259 


Although the Judge’s speech, as we perceive, was not 
quite free from provincialisms, his arguments were none 
the less powerful on that account. He said a good deal 
more in the same strain, holding out threats of unforgive- 
ness and disinheritance on the one hand, and praise and 
promises on the other ; Cephas standing with the bridle 
in his hand, and poor Tip’s anxious heart beating like a 
pendulum between the hope that his rival would be con- 
vinced and the fear that he would not. 

“ The question is simply this, father,” said Cephas, 
growing impatient : “ which to choose, love or money 1 
And I assure you I ’d much rather please you than dis- 
please you.” 

“ That ’s the way to talk, Cephas ! That sounds like ! ” 
exclaimed the Judge. 

“But if I choose money,” Cephas hastened to say, 
“ money it shall be. I ought to make a good thing out 
of it. What will you give to make it an object 1 ” 

“ Give 1 Give you all I ’ve got, of course. What ’s 
mine is yours, — or will be, some day.” 

“ Some day is n’t the thing. I prefer one good bird in 
the hand to any number of fine songsters in the bush. 
Give me five thousand dollars, and it ’s a bargain.” 

“ Pooh ! pooh ! ” said the Judge. 

“Very well; then stand aside and let me and Pericles 
pass.” 

“Don’t be unreasonable, Cephas'? Let the colt stand. 
What do you want of five thousand dollars 1 ” 

“ Never mind ; if you don’t see fit to give it, I ’ll go and 
see Nancy.” 

“ No, no, you sha’ n’t ! Let go the bridle ! I ’d ruther 
give ten thousand.” 

“ Very well ; give me ten, then ! ” 

4t I mean — don’t go to being wild and headstrong now 1 


260 


NANCY BLYNN’S LOVERS. 


1 11 give you a thousand dollars, if nothing else will satisfy 
you.” 

“ 1 11 divide the difference with you,” said Cephas. 
“You shall give me three thousand, and that, you must 
confess, is very little.” 

“ It ’s a bargain ! ” exclaimed the J udge. And Tip was 
thrilled with joy. 

“ I ’m sorry I did n’t stick to five thousand ! ” said 
Cephe. “ But I wish to ask, can I, for instance, marry 
Melissa More 1 Next to Nancy, she is the prettiest girl in 
town.” 

“ But she has no position ; there is the same objection 
to her there is to Nancy. The bargain is, you are not to 
marry any poor girl ; and I mean to have it in writing. 
So pull off the saddle and come into the house.” 

“ If I had been shrewd I might just as well have got 
five thousand,” said Cephas. 

Tip Tansley, more excited than he had ever been in his 
life, waited until the two had left the barn ; then, creeping 
over the hay, hitting his head in the dark against the 
low rafters, he slid down from his hiding-place, carefully 
descended the stairs, gathered up what he could find of 
the scattered ears of tucket, and set out to run through the 
orchard and across the fields to the Widow Blynn’s cottage. 
The evening was starry, and the edges of the few dark 
clouds that lay low in the east predicted the rising moon. 
Halting only to climb fences, or to pick up now and then 
the corn that persisted in dropping from his pockets, or to 
scrutinize some object that he thought looked “pokerish” 
in the dark, prudently shunning the dismal woods on one 
side, and the pasture where the “ hooking ” cattle were on 
the other, Tip kept on, and arrived, all palpitating and 
perspiring, at the widow’s house, just as the big red moon 
was coming up amidst the clouds over the hill. He had 


NANCY BLYNN’S LOVERS. 


261 


left a good deal of his corn and all his courage behind him 
in his flight ; for Tip, ardently as he loved the beautiful 
Nancy, could lay no claim to her on the poetical ground 
that “ the brave deserve the fair.” 

With uncertain knuckles Tip rapped on the humble 
door, having first looked through the kitchen window, and 
seen the widow sitting within, sewing by the light of a 
tallow candle. 

“ Good evening, William,” said Mrs. Blynn, opening the 
door, with her spectacles on her forehead, and her work 
gathered up in her lap under her bent figure. “ Come in ; 
take a chair.” 

“ Guess I can’t stop,” replied Tip, sidling into the room 
with his hat on. “How ’s all the folks? Nancy to 
hum 1 ” 

“ Nancy ’s up stairs ; I ’ll speak to her. — Nancy,” called 
the widow at the chamber door, “ Tip is here ! — Better 
take a chair while you stop,” she added, smiling upon the 
visitor, who always, on arriving, “ guessed he could n’t 
stop,” and usually ended by remaining until he was sent 
away. 

“Wal, may as well; jest as cheap settin’ as standin’,” 
said Tip, depositing the burden of his personality — weight, 
146 lbs. — upon one of the creaky, splint-bottomed chairs. 
“ Pooty warm night, kind o’,” raising his arm to wipe his 
face with his sleeve; upon which an ear of that discon- 
tented tucket took occasion to tumble upon the floor. 
“ Hello ! what ’s that ? By gracious, if ’t a’n’t green corn ! 
Got any fire ? Guess we ’ll have a roast.” 

And Tip, taking off his hat, began to empty his stuffed 
pockets into it. 

“Law me!” said the widow, squinting over her work. 
“ I thought your pockets stuck out amazin’ ! I ha’n’t 
had the first taste of green corn this year. It ’s real kind 


262 


NANCY BLYNN’S LOVERS. 


o’ thoughtful in you, Tip ; but the fire ’s all out, and we 
can’t think of roastin’ on ’t to-night, as I see.” 

“Mebby Nancy will,” chuckled Tip. “A’n’t she cornin’ 
down 1 ? — Any time to-night, Nancy!” cried Tip, raising 
his voice, to be heard by his beloved# in her retreat. 
“You do’no’ what I brought ye ! ” 

Now, sad as the truth may sound to the reader sympa- 
thizing with Tip, Nancy cared little what he had brought, 
and experienced no very ardent desire to come down and 
meet him. She sat at her window, looking at the stars, 
and thinking of somebody who she had hoped would visit 
her that night. But that somebody was not Tip; and 
although the first sound of his footsteps had set her heart 
fluttering with expectation, his near approach, breathing 
fast and loud, had given her a chill of disappointment, 
almost of disgust, and she now much preferred her own 
thoughts, and the moonrise through the trees in the direc- 
tion of Judge Boxton’s house, to all the green com and all 
the green lovers in New England. Her mother, however, 
who commiserated Tip, and believed as much in being 
civil to neighbors as she did in keeping the Sabbath, called 
again, and gave her no peace until she had left the win- 
dow, the moonrise, and her romantic dreams, and de- 
scended into the prosaic atmosphere of the kitchen, and 
of Tip and his com. 

How lovely she looked, to Tip’s eyes ! Her plain, neat 
calico gown, enfolding a wonderful little rounded embodi- 
ment of grace and beauty, seemed to him an attire fit 
for any queen or fairy that ever lived. But it was the 
same old tragic story over again, — although Tip loved 
Nancy, Nancy loved not Tip. However he might flatter 
himself, her regard for him was on the cool side of sisterly, 
— simply the toleration of a kindly heart for one who was 
not to blame for being less bright than other people. 


NANCY BLYNN’S LOVEKS. 


263 


She took her sewing, and sat by the table, 0, so beau- 
tiful ! Tip thought, and enveloped in a charmed atmos- 
phere which seemed to touch and transfigure every object 
except himself. The humble apartment, the splint-bot- 
tomed chairs, the stockings drying on the pole, even the 
widow’s cap and gown, and the old black snuffers on the 
table, — all, save poor, homely Tip, stole a ray of grace 
from the halo of her loveliness. 

Nancy discouraged the proposition of roasting corn, and 
otherwise deeply grieved her visitor by intently working 
and thinking, instead of taking part in the conversation. 
At length a bright idea occurred to him. 

“ Got a slate and pencil 1 ” 

The widow furnished the required articles. He then 
found a book, and, using the cover as a rule, marked out 
the plan of a game. 

“Fox and geese, Nancy; ye play?” And having 
picked off a sufficient number of kernels from one of the 
ears of corn, and placed them upon the slate for geese, he 
selected the largest he could find for a fox, stuck it upon a 
pin, and proceeded to roast it in the candle. 

“Which ’ll ye have, Nancy?” — pushing the slate 
toward her ; “ take your choice, and give me the geese ; 
then beat me if you can ! Come, won’t ye play?” 

“ 0 dear, Tip, what a tease you are ! ” said Nancy. “ I 
don’t want to play. I must work. Get mother to play 
with you, Tip.” 

“ She don’t wanter ! ” exclaimed Tip. “ Come, Nancy ; 
then I ’ll tell ye suthin’ I heard jest ’fore I come away, — 
suthin’ ’bout you ! ” 

And Tip, assuming a careless air, proceeded to pile up 
the ears of corn, log-house fashion, upon the table, while 
Nancy was finishing her seam. 

“About me?” she echoed. 


264 


NANCY BLYNN’S LOVERS. 


“You’d ha’ thought so!” said Tip, slyly glanciug over 
the corn as he spoke, to watch the effect on Nancy. 
“Cephe and the old man had the all-firedest row, — tell 
you ! ” 

He hitched around in his chair, and resting his elbows 
on his knees, looked up, shrewd and grinning, into her 
face. 

“ William Tansley, what do you mean ? ” 

“ As if you could n’t guess ! Cephe was cornin’ to see 
you to-night ; but he won’t,” chuckled Tip. “ Say ! ye 
ready for fox and geese?” 

“ How do you know that ? ” demanded Nancy. 

“ ’Cause I heard ! The old man stopped him, and 
Cephe was goin’ to ride over him, but the old man was 
too much for him ; he jerked him off the hoss, and there 
they had it, lickety-s witch, rough-and-tumble, till Cephe 
give in, and told the old man, ruther ’n have any words, 
he ’d promise never to come and see you agin if he ’d give 
him three thousand dollars ; and the old man said ’t was a 
bargain ! ” 

“Is that true, Tip?” cried the widow, dropping her 
work and raising her hands. 

“ True as I live and breathe, and draw the breath of life, 
and have a livin’ bein’ ! ” Tip solemnly affirmed. 

“Just as I always told you, Nancy!” exclaimed the 
widow. “ I knew how it would be. I felt sartin Cephas 
could n’t be depended upon. His father never ’d hear a 
word to it, I always said. Now don’t feel bad, Nancy; 
don’t mind it. It ’ll be all for the best, I hope. Now 
don’t, Nancy; don’t, I beg and beseech.” 

She saw plainly by the convulsive movement of the 
girl’s bosom and the quivering of her lip that some pas- 
sionate demonstration was threatened. Tip meanwhile 
had advanced his chair still nearer, contorting his neck 


NANCY BLYNN’S LOVERS. 


265 


and looking up with leering malice into her face until his 
nose almost touched her cheek. 

“ What do ye think now of Cephe Boxton 1 ” he asked, 
tauntingly; “ hey 1 ” 

A stinging blow upon the ear rewarded his imperti- 
nence, and he recoiled so suddenly that his chair went 
over and threw him sprawling upon the floor. 

“ Gosh all hemlock ! ” he muttered, scrambling to his 
feet, rubbing first his elbow, then his ear. “ What ’s that 
fur, I ’d like to know, — knockin’ a feller down ? ” 

“What do I think of Cephas Boxton 1” cried Nancy. 
“ I think the same I did before, — why should n’t 1 1 
Your slander is no slander. Now sit down and behave 
yourself, and don’t put your face too near mine, if you 
don’t want your ears boxed ! ” 

“ Why, Nancy, how could you ? ” groaned the widow. 

Nancy made no reply, but resumed her work very much 
as if nothing had happened. 

“ Hurt you much, William 1 ” 

“Not much; only it made my elbow sing like all 
Jerewsalem ! Never mind ; she ’ll find out ! Where ’s my 
hat?” 

“You a’n’t going, be ye?” said Mrs. Blynn, with an air 
of solicitude. 

“ I guess I a’n’t wanted here,” mumbled Tip, pulling his 
hat over his ears. He struck the slate, scattering the fox 
and geese, and demolished the house of green corn. “ You 
can keep that ; I don’t want it. Good night, Miss Blynn.” 

Tip placed peculiar emphasis upon the name, and fum- 
bled a good while with the latch, expecting Nancy would 
say something; but she maintained a cool and dignified 
silence, and as nobody urged him to stay, he reluctantly 
departed, his heart full of injury, and his hopes collapsed 
like his pockets. 

12 


266 


NANCY BLYNN’S LOVERS. 


For some minutes Nancy continued to sew intently and 
fast, her flushed face bowed over the seam ; then suddenly 
her eyes blurred, her fingers forgot their cunning, the 
needle shot blindly hither and thither, and the quickly 
drawn thread snapped in twain. 

“Nancy! Nancy! don’t!” pleaded Mrs. Blynn; “I 
beg of ye, now don’t ! ” 

“ 0 mother,” burst forth the young girl, with sobs, “ I 
am so unhappy ! What did I strike poor Tip for 1 He 
did not know any better. I am always doing something 
so wrong ! He could not have made up the story. 
Cephas would have come here to-night, — I know he 
would ! ” 

“ Poor child ! poor child ! ” said Mrs. Blynn. “ Why 
could n’t you hear to me 1 I always told you to be careful 
and not like Cephas too well. But maybe Tip did n’t 
understand. Maybe Cephas will come to-morrow, and 
then all will be explained.” 

“Cephas is true, I know, I know!” wept Nancy, “but 
his father — ■ ” 

The morrow came and passed, and no Cephas. The 
next day was Sunday, and Nancy went to church, not 
with an undivided heart, but with human love and hope 
and grief mingling strangely with her prayers. She knew 
Cephas would be there, and felt that a glance of his eye 
would tell her all. But — for the first time in many 
months it happened — they sat in the same house of wor- 
ship, she with her mother in their humble corner, he in 
the Judge’s conspicuous pew, and no word or look passed 
between them. She went home, still to wait. Day. after 
day of leaden loneliness, night after night of watching and 
despair, and still no Cephas. Tip also had discontinued 
his visits. Mrs. Blynn saw a slow, certain change come 
over her child ; her joyous laugh rang no more, neither 


NANCY BLYNN’S LOVERS. 


267 


were her tears often seen or her sighs heard; but she 
seemed disciplining herself to bear with patience and 
serenity the desolateness of her lot. 

One evening it was stormy, and Nancy and her mother 
were together in the plain, tidy kitchen, both sewing and 
both silent ; gusts and rain lashing the windows, and the 
cat purring in a chair. Nancy’s heart was more quiet 
than usual ; for, although expectation was not quite 
extinct, no visitor surely could be looked for on such a 
night. Suddenly, however, amidst the sounds of the 
storm, she heard footsteps and a knock at the door. Yet 
she need not have started and changed color so tumultu- 
ously, for the visitor was only Tip. 

“Good evenin’,” said young Master Tansley, stamping, 
pulling off his dripping hat, and shaking it. “ I ’d no idee 
it rained so ! I was goin’ by, and thought I ’d stop in. 
Ye mad, Nancy?” And he peered at the young girl from 
beneath his wet hair with a bashful grin. 

Nancy’s heart was too much softened to cherish any 
resentment, and with suffused eyes she begged Tip to 
forgive the blow. 

“Wal! I do’no’ what I’d done to be knocked down 
fur,” began Tip, with a pouting and aggrieved air; 
“ though I s’pose I dew, tew. But I guess what I told ye 
turned out about so, after all ; did n’t it, hey ? ” 

At Nancy’s look of distress, Mrs. Blynn made signs for 
Tip to forbear. But he had come too far through the 
darkness and rain with an exciting piece of news to be 
thus easily silenced. 

“ I ha’n’t brought ye no corn this time, for I did n’t 
know as you ’d roast it if I did. Say, Nancy ! Cephe and 
the old man had it agin to-day; and the Judge forked 
over the three thousand dollars ; I seen him ! He was 
only waitin’ to raise it. It ’s real mean in Cephe, I s’pose 


268 


NANCY BLYNN’S LOVERS. 


you think. Mebby ’t is ; but, by gracious ! three thou- 
sand dollars is a ’tarnal slue of money ! ” 

Hugely satisfied with the effect this announcement pro- 
duced, Tip sprawled upon a chair and chewed a stick, like 
one resolved to make himself comfortable for the evening. 

“ Saxafrax, — ye want some 1 ” he said, breaking off with 
his teeth a liberal piece of the stick. “ Say, Nancy ! ye 
need n’t look so mad. Cephe has sold out, I tell ye ; and 
when I offer ye saxafrax, ye may as well take some.” 

Not without effort Nancy held her peace; and Tip, 
extending the fragment of the sassafras-root which his 
teeth had split off, was complacently urging her to accept 
it, — “ T was real good,” — when the sound of hoofs was 
heard ; a halt at the gate ; a horseman dismounting, lead- 
ing his animal to the shed ; a voice saying “ Be still, 
Pericles ! ” and footsteps approaching the door. 

“Nancy! Nancy!” articulated Mrs. Blynn, scarcely 
less agitated than her daughter, “ he has come ! ” 

“ It ’s Cephe ! ” whispered Tip, hoarsely. “ If he should 
ketch me here ! I — I guess I ’ll go ! Confound that 
Cephe, anyhow ! ” 

Rap, rap ! two light, decisive strokes of a riding-whip 
on the kitchen door. 

Mrs. Blynn glanced around to see if everything was tidy ; 
and Tip, dropping his sassafras, whirled about and wheeled 
about like Jim Crow in the excitement of the moment. 

“ Mother, go ! ” uttered Nancy, pale with emotion, hur- 
riedly pointing to the door. 

She made her escape by the stairway ; observing which, 
the bewildered Tip, who had indulged a frantic thought of 
leaping from the window to avoid meeting his dread rival, 
changed his mind and rushed after her. Unadvised of his 
intention, and thinking only of shutting herself from the 
sight of young Boxton, Nancy closed the kitchen door 


NANCY BLYNN’S LOVERS. 


269 


rather severely upon Tip’s fingers ; but his fear rendered 
him insensible to pain, and he followed her, scrambling up 
the dark staircase just as Mrs. Blynn admitted Cephas. 

Nancy did not immediately perceive what had occurred; 
but presently, amidst the sounds of the rain on the roof 
and of the wind about the gables, she heard the unmis- 
takable perturbed breathing of her luckless lover. 

“ Nancy,” whispered Tip, “ whe^e be ye 1 I ’ve most 
broke my head agin this blasted beam ! ” 

“What are you here fori” demanded Nancy. 

“ ’Cause I did n’t want him to see me. He won’t stop 
but a minute ; then I ’ll go down. I did give my head 
the all-firedest tunk ! ” said Tip. 

Mrs. Blynn opened the door to inform Nancy of the arri- 
val of her visitor, and the light from below, partially illumi- 
nating the fugitive’s retreat, showed Tip in a sitting posture 
on one of the upper stairs, diligently rubbing that portion 
of his cranium which had come in collision with the beam. 

“ Say, Nancy, don’t go ! ” whispered Tip ; “ don’t leave 
me here in the dark ! ” 

Nancy had too many tumultuous thoughts of her own 
to give much heed to his distress; and having hastily 
arranged her hair and dress by the sense of touch, she 
glided by him, bidding him keep quiet, and descended the 
stairs to the door, which she closed after her, leaving him 
to the wretched solitude of the place, which appeared to 
him a hundred fold more dark and dreadful than before. 

Cephas in the mean time had divested himself of his oil- 
cloth capote, and entered the neat little sitting-room, to 
which he was civilly shown by the widow. “ Nancy ’ll 
be down in a minute.” And placing a candle upon the 
mantel-piece, Mrs. Blynn withdrew. 

Nancy, having regained her self-possession, appeared 
mighty dignified before her lover; gave him a passive 


270 


NANCY BLYNN’S LOVERS. 


hand ; declined, with averted head, his proffered kiss ; and 
seated herself at a cool and respectable distance. 

“Nancy, what is the matter 1” said Cephas, in min- 
gled amazement and alarm. “ You act as though I was a 
pedler, and you did n’t care to trade.” 

“You can trade, sir ; you can make what bargains you 
please with others ; but — ” Nancy’s aching and swelling 
heart came up and choked her. 

“ Nancy ! what have I done ! What has changed you 
so 1 Have you forgotten — the last time I was here ! ” 

“ ’T would not be strange if I had, it was so long ago ! ” 

Poor Nancy spoke cuttingly ; but her sarcasm was as a 
sword with two points, which pierced her own heart quite 
as much as it wounded her lover’s. 

“Nancy,” said Cephas, and he took her hand again so 
tenderly that it was like putting heaven away to withdraw 
it, “ could n’t you trust me ! Has n’t your heart assured 
you that I could never stay away from you so without 
good reasons 1” 

“ 0, I don’t doubt but you had reasons ! ” replied 
Nancy, with a bursting anguish in her tones. “ But such 
reasons ! ” 

“ Such reasons 1 ” repeated Cephas, grieved and repelled. 
“ Will you please inform me what you mean 1 For, as I 
live, I am ignorant ! ” 

“ Ah, Cephas ! it is not true, then,” cried Nancy, with 
sudden hope, “ that — your father — ” 

“What of my father!” 

“That he has offered you money — ” 

A vivid emotion flashed across the young man’s face. 

“I would have preferred to tell you without being 
questioned so sharply,” he replied. “But since hearsay 
has got the start of me, and brought you the news, I can 
only answer — he has offered me money.” 


NANCY BLYNN’S LOVERS. 


271 


“ To buy you — to hire you — ” 

“Not to marry any poor girl, — that’s the bargain, 
Nancy,” said Cephas, with the tenderest of smiles. 

“And you have accepted?” cried Najicy, quickly. 

“ I have accepted,” responded Cephas. 

Nancy uttered not a word. 

“ I came to tell you all this ; but I should have told 
you in a different way, could I have had my choice,” said 
Cephas. “What I have done is for your happiness as 
much as my own. My father threatened to disinherit me 
if I married a poor girl ; and how could I bear the thought 
of subjecting yoii to such a lot ? He has given me three 
thousand dollars; I only received it to-day, or I should 
have come to you before, for, Nancy, — do not look so 
strange ! — it is for you, this money, — do you hear ? ” 

He attempted to draw her toward him, but she sprang 
indignantly to her feet. 

“ Cephas ! You offer me money ! ” 

“ Nancy ! ” — Cephas caught her and folded her in his 
arms, — “ don’t you understand ? It is your dowry ! You 
are no longer a poor girl. I promised not to marry any 
poor girl , but I never promised not to marry you. Accept 
the dowry; then you will be a rich girl, and — my wife, 
my wife, Nancy ! ” 

“ 0 Cephas ! is it true 1 Let me look at you ! ” She 
held him firm, and looked into his face, and into his deep 
tender eyes. “ It is true ! ” 

What more was said or done I am unable to relate ; for 
about this time there came from another part of the house 
a dull, reverberating sound, succeeded by a rapid series of 
concussions, as of some ponderous body descending in a 
swift but irregular manner from the top to the bottom of 
the stairs. It was Master William Tansley, who, groping 
about in the dark with intent to find a stove-pipe hole at 


272 


NANCY BLYNN’S LOVERS. 


which to listen, had lost his latitude and his equilibrium, 
and tumbled from landing to landing, in obedience to the 
dangerous laws of gravitation. Mrs. Blynn flew to open 
the door ; found him helplessly kicking on his back, with 
his head in the rag-bag; drew him forth by one arm; 
ascertained that he had met with no injuries which a little 
salve would not heal ; patched him up almost as good as 
new; gave him her sympathy and a lantern to go home 
with, and kindly bade him good night. 

So ended Tip Tansley’s unfortunate love-affair ; and I 
am pleased to relate that his broken heart recovered from 
its hurts almost as speedily as his broken head. 

A month later the village clergyman was called to 
administer the vows of wedlock to a pair of happy lovers 
in the Widow Blynn’s cottage ; and the next morning there 
went abroad the report of a marriage which surprised the 
good people of the parish generally, and Judge Boxton 
more particularly. 

In the afternoon of that day Cephas rode home to pay 
his respects to the old gentleman, and ask him if he would 
like an introduction to the bride. 

“ Cephas!” cried the Judge, filled with wrath, smiting 
his son’s written agreement with his angry hand, “look 
here ! your promise ! Have you forgotten % ” 

“ Read it, please,” said Cephas. 

“In consideration,” began the Judge, running his trou- 
bled eye over the paper, “ . . . . I do hereby pledge my- 
self, never, at any time, or in any place, to marry any 
poor girl.” 

“You will find,” said Cephas, “that I have acted 
according to the strict terms of our agreement. And I 
have the honor to inform you, sir, that I have married a 
person who, with other attractions, possesses the hand- 
some trifle of three thousand dollars.” 


NANCY BLYNN’S LOVERS. 


273 


The Judge fumed, made use of an oath or two, and 
talked loudly of disinheritance and cutting off with a 
shilling. 

“ I should be very sorry to have you do such a thing,” 
rejoined Cephas, respectfully; “but, after all, it isn’t as 
though I had not received a neat little fortune by the way 
of my wife.” 

A retort so happy that the Judge ended with a hearty 
acknowledgment of his son’s superior wit, and an invi- 
tation to come home and lodge his lovely encumbrance 
beneath the parental roof. 

Thereupon Cephas took a roll of notes from his pocket. 
“All jesting aside,” said he, “I must first square a little 
matter of business with which my wife has commissioned 
me. She is more scrupulous than the son of my father, 
and she refused to receive the money until I had promised 
to return it to you as soon as we should be married. And 
here it is ! ” 

“Fie, fie!” cried the Judge. “Keep the money. 
She ’s a noble girl, after all, — too good for a rogue like 
you ! ” 

“ I know it ! ” said Cephas, humbly, with tears in his 
eyes; for recollections of a somewhat wild and wayward 
youth, mingling with the conscious possession of so much 
love and happiness, melted his heart with unspeakable 
contrition and gratitude. 


ME. BL AZAT’S EXPEDIENCE. 


I. 


THE LADY IN BLACK. 

I HAD walked through the train, carpet-bag in hand, 
without finding an eligible seat. So I walked back 
again, looking very hard at all the non-paying bandboxes, 
bundles, and babies that monopolized the cushions and 
kept gentlemen standing with tickets in their hatbands. 
Not a child was moved, however, by my silent appeal for 
justice. Not a bandbox flinched before my stern, reprov- 
ing gaze. Only one proprietress of such encumbrances 
deigned to take the least notice of me. 

“ There is a seat, sir ! ” she said, in a tone extremely 
mortifying to my self-respect, while her overfed carpet-bag 
appeared choking with merriment at my expense. 

A lady in black filled the designated seat with wide- 
spread mourning apparel and an atmosphere of gloom. 
Everybody seemed by a natural instinct to avoid intruding 
upon her melancholy privacy. The place seemed sacred 
to sorrow. But as she of the babies and bundles spoke, 
she of the voluminous ebon skirts gathered up their folds, 
with a mournfully civil gesture inviting me to sit down. 
I sat down accordingly, awed and chilled by the funereal 
presence. Her bonnet was of black crape, a black veil 
eclipsed her face, and she wore a mourning-ring over the 
finger of a black glove. 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


275 


“Will you have the kindness to open this window, sir]” 
she said to me, in a voice which also appeared clad in 
mourning, — so sombre, so soft, so suggestive of lost 
friends. 

I opened it. 

“ Thank you,” she said, and, putting aside the woven 
midnight of her veil, revealed the most perfect mourning 
countenance I ever beheld, — black hair, black eyes, and 
long, black eyelashes. It was a youthful face, however, 
and rather plump and smooth, I thought, for such stun- 
ning woe. 

“ Will you have the shade raised, madam ] ” 

“0 no, thank you.” And out of the cloud of her coun- 
tenance shone a smile, a very misty, tender, pensive smile. 

I remarked, with appropriate solemnity, that the weather 
was fine. 

“0 yes ! ” she sighed, “it is too beautiful for one that 
a’n’t happy.” 

The lady in black soon grew communicative, and told 
me her story. She was the widow of a physician in one 
of the Western States, who, besides his regular practice, 
had purchased lands which had increased in value, and, 
dying suddenly, had left her a widow w T ith twenty thousand 
dollars. She was going, she added, to visit her uncle, in 
Shoemake. 

“ In Shoemake ! ” I repeated, with a start of interest. 
For I must mention here that I was going to Shoemake. 
My errand was to woo, and of course win, Miss Susie 
Thornton of that place, solely on the recommendation of 
my friend Jones, whose praises of his country cousin, whom 
I had never seen, had induced me to venture upon the 
rather unusual procedure. 

“ Is Shoemake a pleasant place ? ” I inquired. 

“ 0 yes ! ” with another sigh, and another of those 


276 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


smiles, so very attractive that they would have charmed 
even me, had I not considered myself already engaged. 

“ Do you know the Thornton family 1 ” I asked, carelessly. 
“ What ! ” said she, “ do you know the Thorntons 1 ” 
“Not at all ; only a relation of theirs has intrusted me 
with a package for them.” 

“ Susie Thornton is a very pretty girl.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said I, gratified to hear my wife commended. 
“ At least, she was five years ago. But five years make 
such dreadful changes ! ” 

“ How far are the Thorntons from the village 1 ” 

“ 0, not far ! A nice little farm down the river. A 
charming situation.” 


II. 

MR. THORNTON. 

That afternoon, having dressed, dined, and finished my 
cigar, I sallied forth from the “ Shoemake Hotel v to call 
on my future bride. 

I found the cottage ; a neat little cream-colored house 
on a bank of the river ; doors and windows festooned with 
prairie roses ; an orchard behind, and maple-trees in front ; 
and an atmosphere of rural beauty and quietude over all. 

I opened the little wooden gate. It clicked cheerily be- 
hind me, and the sound summoned from the orchard a 
laboring man in rolled-up shirt-sleeves, who approached 
as I was lifting the brass knocker under the festoons 
of roses. 

“How de do, sir 1 Want anything o’ Mr. Thornton’s 
folks 1 ” 

I looked at him. He might have been a porter (at 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


277 


least, lie was a brown stout fellow) ; not above five feet 
five, and rather familiar for such a short acquaintance. 

“ I should like to see Mr. Thornton,” I said, talking 
down at him from my six-foot dignity on the doorstep. 

“ 0, wal ! walk right in ! We ’re all in the orchard jest 
now, gitting a hive of bees.” 

“ Be so kind then, my good fellow,” said I, producing 
Jones’s letter, “as to hand this to Mr. Thornton.” 

He received the letter in his great, brown, horny hands, 
stared at the superscription, stared at me, said, “ Oh ! 
Jones ! ” and opened it. “I am Mr. Thornton,” he in- 
formed me, before beginning to read. 

When the letter was read he looked up again, smilingly. 

“ This is Mr. Blazay, then ! ” he said. 

“ Delighted to meet you, Mr. Thornton,” I said. 

He reached up, I reached down. He got hold of my 
hand as if it had been a bell-rope, and wrung it cordially. 
I knew he was glad to see me, as well as if he had told me. 

“ Will you step into the house or into the orchard 1 ” 
said Mr. Thornton. 

House or orchard, I felt my foot was in it, and it made 
little difference which way I stepped. 

“ Wal,” said he, as he was taking me to see the bees ; 
“ so you ’ve come up here, thinking mabby you ’d like to 
marry our Susie 1 ” 

I stopped aghast. 

“I — I was n’t aware, sir, that Jones had written any- 
thing to that effect ! ” 

“ A private letter I got from him yis’d’y,” said Mr. Thorn- 
ton ; “ he seemed to think ’s best to kinder explain things 
’fore you got along. I think about so myself. He gives 
you a tolerable fair character, and, fur ’s I ’m concerned, 
if you and Susie can make a bargain, I sha’ n’t raise no 
objections.” 


278 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


“ Have you,” I gasped, “ mentioned it to Susie 1 ” 

“ 0, sartin ! ” said Mr. Thornton. “ Mother and I 
thought best to talk the matter over with her, so ’s to 
have everything open and aboveboard, and save misunder- 
standings in the futur’.” 

“ And, may I ask, how did Susie regard a — such a — 
very singular arrangement 1 ” 

“ Singular 1 How so 1 Mother and I looked upon it as 
very sensible. You come and git acquainted and marry 
her, if agreeable ; or if not, not. That ’s what I call 
straightfor’a’d.” 

“ StraightforVd ] 0 yes, to be sure ! * I said, and es- 

sayed to laugh, with very indifferent, if not with quite 
ghastly, success. 

A little too y straightforward, was n’t it ? It was well 
enough, of course, for a couple of hardened wretches like 
Jones and myself to talk over a matrimonial project in 
business fashion, and for me to come up and look at the 
article of a bride he recommended, to see if she suited ; 
but to know that the affair had been coolly discussed by 
the other party to the proposed bargain made it as awk- 
ward and unromantic as possible. I even suspected that 
I was the victim of a hoax, and that Jones was at that 
moment chuckling over my stupendous gullibility. 


III. 

SUSIE AND THE BEES. 

“ That there ’s my darter, and them ’s the bees,” said 
Mr. Thornton. 

“ What ! that thing in the tree 1 ” said I, using my eye- 
glass. “ It looks like a shocking bad hat ! 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


279 


“ That ’s the swarm stuck on to the limb/’ said Mr. 
Thornton. “ We ’ll have Susie to thank if we save ’em. 
She heard ’em flying over, and run out with the dinner-bell 
and called ’em.” 

“ Called ’em to dinner ? ” I said, absent-mindedly. 

“ Ringing the bell called ’em down, till bimeby they lit 
on that tree. A swarm ’ll gen’ly come to such noises. 
And Susie ’s a master-hand to look arter bees.” 

“ What ’s she doing up on the ladder there?” 

“ She ’s cutting off the limb. It ’s curi’s,” said Mr. 
Thornton, with fatherly pride, “ bees never tech her, 
though she goes right in among ’em. Sting me, though ; 
so I keep a little back. Susie’s mother, Mr. Blazay ! ” 

At that a freckled, good-natured woman, who stood at a 
little distance from the tree, with her arms rolled up in a 
calico apron, took them out to shake hands with me, and 
rolled them up again. 

“ What are these little negro boys doing? ” I inquired. 

“ Nigger boys ! Ho ! ho 3 ho ! ” laughed the paternal 
Thornton. 

“ Them ’s our little boys, sir,” said the maternal Thorn- 
ton, with an amused smile. “ What you see is veils tied 
over their faces to keep the bees from stinging on ’em. 
That ’s George Washington holding the ladder for Susie ; 
and that ’s Andrew Jackson tending the clo’es-line.” 

“This is the second swarm Susie has stopped this 
season,” said Mr. Thornton. “ Both wild swarms from 
the woods, prob’bly. We consider it quite a prize.” 

“Hive of bees in May, wuth a ton of hay ; hive of bees 
in June, wuth a silver spoon; hive of bees in July, not 
wuth a fly. That ’s the old adage,” smiled Mrs. Thorn- 
ton. 

“ But Susie has good luck with her bees, let ’em swarm 
when they will,” said Mr. Thornton. 


280 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


“ Look out down there ! ” cried a clear, shrill, feminine 
voice from the tree. 

The fibres of the bough began to crack ; and somewhat 
to my alarm I saw the great, black, hat-like mass swing 
down, as if about to fall to the ground. But I soon per- 
ceived that it was secured by the rope, which was passed 
over a limb above, and then down to Andrew Jackson’s 
hand, who stood looking up through his veil, waiting for 
orders. Susie severed the bark and splinters that still 
held the branch, then dropped her little handsaw on the 
grass. 

“ Now, Jackson ! ” Slowly the boy payed out the line, 
and slowly the bough descended with its burden. “ Hold 
on, Georgie ! ” Georgie held on, and down the ladder came 
Susie. 

Animated, agile, red as a rose, she ran to her bees, I 
regarding her meanwhile with anxious interest. Tak- 
ing hold of the bough where it hung, she ordered An- 
drew Jackson to “let it come,” lowered it almost to the 
ground and shook it. The bees fell off in great bunches 
and clusters, which burst into buzzing, crumbling, 
crawling multitudes on the grass, — wave on wave dark 
surging. George Washington stood ready with a bee-hive, 
which he clapped over the living heap. And the job was 
done. 

“ There, father ! ” cried Susie, merrily, “ what are you 
going to give me for that 1 Hive of bees in June — ” 

She stopped, seeing me. 

“ You shall have your silver spoon,” said Mr. Thornton. 
“ This is Mr. Blazay, Susie.” 

Determined to perform my part with becoming gallantry, 
I advanced. Unluckily, I am tall. My bow was lofty ; 
the bough of the tree was low. Before I could take off 
my hat it was taken off for me. Attempting to catch it, 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


281 


I knocked it like a ball straight at Susie’s head. She 
dodged it, and it fell by the bee-hive. At that the Father 
of his Country rushed to the rescue, and brought it back 
to me with the air of a youngster who expects a penny for 
his services. 

I was finishing my bow to Susie, when I observed a 
number of swift, zigzag, darting insects circling about us. 

“Stand still and they won’t hurt ye,” said George Wash- 
ington, handing me my hat. “ Make ’em think you ’re a 
tree ! ” 

I assumed the rdle accordingly, — rooted myself to the 
spot, — held my tall trunk erect, — kept my limbs rigid, — 
and, I am confident, appeared verdant enough to deceive even 
a bee. In that interesting attitude I looked as uncon- 
cerned as possible, grimaced at Susie, said what a delight- 
ful orchard it was, and felt a whizzing, winnowing sensa- 
tion in my foliage, otherwise called hair. 

“ There ’s a bee ! ” screamed Andrew Jackson. 

The General was right, — there -was a bee. I began to 
brush. 

“ Don’t ye stir ! ” shouted Washington. “ That ’ll only 
make him mad ! Keep jest as still ! ” 

It was easy for the First President to stand there, with 
his face veiled, and promulgate that theory. But I was n’t 
up to it. I found myself stirring my stumps involuntarily. 
I dropped my hat and stepped in it. The bee whizzed 
and winnowed ; I flirted and brushed. Then came a 
poignant thrill ! The assassin had his poisoned dagger 
in me. 

The sublime Washington continued to shout, “Keep 
still, keep jest as still ! ” But already my movements had 
quite dispelled the illusion that I was a tree, and the dart- 
ing and dinning about my ears became terrific. I endeav- 
ored to smile calmly at Susie, and talk as became a man 


282 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


of my politeness and dignity. But it was no use. Panic 
seized me. I stamped, I swung my crushed hat, I took to 
my heels. I ran like a Mohawk ; and I should never, 
probably, have stopped running until I reached a railroad 
train, had not the same destiny that brought me to Shoe- 
make conspired to keep me there by casting a dead branch 
in my way. In giving my head a brush I neglected the 
brush at my feet. They became entangled in it, and I 
sprawled my six feet of manly dignity ingloriously on the 
turf. 


IY. 

HOW I WAS ENTERTAINED. 

The first thing I heard, on recovering my faculties and 
sitting up, was laughter. George Washington and Andrew 
Jackson were rolling and keeling over with laughter. Mrs. 
Thornton was eating her calico apron. Mr. Thornton 
was suffering from an excruciating attack of colic, while 
Susie indulged without restraint her very ill-timed merri- 
ment. 

As I got upon my feet the whole family came forward 
to see if I was hurt. 

u Children ! Susie ! ” I could hear Mr. Thornton saying ; 
“ hush ! don’t ye know no better ’n to laugh 1 Did you, 
sir, git stung I ” 

“I — I thought the bees were coming rather near ” I 
remarked, cheerfully, pressing my hat into shape, “so I 
concluded to stand back a little.” 

“ Sartin, sartin ! ” said Mr. Thornton. 

“Susie!” giggled George Washington, “he thought 
he ’d staff back a little ! he, he, he ! ” 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


283 


“Didn’t his arms and legs fly for about a minute, 
though ! ” snickered Andrew Jackson. 

“ Shall we go and examine the operations of the bees 1 
I feel a lively interest in bees.” And I put on my hat, 
pulling it gayly over the aching eyebrow. 

“ I ’m afraid,” said Mr. Thornton, “ the bees have been 
so kind o’ shook up ’t won’t be very safe to go near ’em 
right away.” 

“ Ah ! you think so 1 A sting is nothing — a — noth- 
ing dangerous, is it 1 ” 

“0 no ; but it ’s sometimes plaguy uncomf table,” said 
Mr. Thornton, “ that ’s all.” 

“ That all 1 ” said I, glad to hear it. “ I ’m sure that ’s 
nothing so very dreadful. However, if you think we’d 
better wait until the bees get a little quiet, I can restrain 
my curiosity.” 

Susie had found an excuse to go back to the hive. I 
should have been glad of any excuse to return at the same 
instant to the hotel. I had seen enough of her, and cer- 
tainly had heard enough. My interest in the Thorntons 
was satiated. I had made up my mind that I did n’t want 
to marry. The country was not so charming as I had an- 
ticipated. I very much preferred the town. 

“Wal, may as well go into the house, I guess,” said 
Mr. Thornton, leading the way. 

So we went in. The door of a close, gloomy little par- 
lor was thrown open, and I was requested to enter and 
make myself at home. 

“You must go in and entertain him while I help Susie 
slick up a little,” I heard Mrs. Thornton whisper at the door. 

So Mr. Thornton came in, sat down in his rolled-up 
shirt-sleeves, put one leg over the other, hung his hat on 
his knee, and entertained me. 

Of the entertainment, however, the most I remember is, 


284 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


that I not only experienced an ever-increasing anguish in 
the part which had been stung, but discovered, to my con- 
sternation, that it was swelling rapidly. 

“ I knowed a man once got stung on the head,” re- 
marked Mr. Thornton, bees being the topic of conversation, 
“ and he was blind for three days arter it, and his head 
swelled up as big as half a barrel.” 

Having entertained me with this extraordinary fact, the 
worthy man withdrew. I sprang to my feet and looked in 
the glass over the mantel-piece. Appalling spectacle ! 
My organ of locality was growing, — it had already at- 
tained the size of a walnut, — and was fast swelling to the 
dimensions of an egg. I caught up my hat and pitched it 
recklessly on my forehead. As I was drawing on my 
gloves I heard whispers. 

“ I can’t go in ! I shall laugh, I know I shall ! ” fol- 
lowed by a suppressed giggle. 

“ Why, Susie, don’t be so foolish ! ” said Mrs. Thornton. 
“ Come ! I ’ll go in with you ! ” 

More whispers, a little fluttering, and in came Mrs. and 
Miss Thornton, catching me with my hat and one glove 
on. Retreat being thus cut off, I sat down again in the 
obscurest corner, with the unstung hemisphere of my 
phrenology in the light and the other in shadow. 

Susie seated herself opposite, with her eyes downcast, 
looking rigid, red, and as utterly unattractive as possible. 
She never once opened her mouth to speak, but now and 
then appeared seized by an almost ungovernable impulse 
to giggle, after which she became more astonishingly rigid 
and red than before. 

Mrs. Thornton and I were discussing the weather, with 
now and then an awful interval of silence, when Susie, 
who, to conceal her embarrassment, had turned her eyes 
out of the window, suddenly started back. 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


285 


“ Mother, there comes Peleg ! ” 

And almost immediately I saw standing in the door a 
young man in light summer clothes, with ruddy-brown 
cheeks, a long nose, and a droll expression of countenance, 
nodding and winking like a harlequin. 


V. 


P. GREEN. 

“Come in, Peleg,” said Mrs. Thornton. “Mr. Blazay, 
this is our neighbor, Mr. Green.” 

Mr. Green made an extravagant flourish, shook my 
hand very hard, bowed extremely low, and remarked, 
through his nose, that he was most happy. 

“ Did n’t know, though, ye had company,” he said apolo- 
getically. He looked around for a seat, and finally, part- 
ing his coat-tails, sat down near Susie. “ Fine weather 
now we’re having, Mr. Blazaway.” 

“Mrs. Thornton and I were just remarking that the 
weather was fine,” I answered, dryly. 

Mrs. Thornton looked disconcerted by the neighbor’s 
appearance, and after fidgeting a minute left the room. 

“ Grand good weather for hay,” said Mr. Green. “ Brings 
out the rakes — hem ! ” 

Susie looked slyly at him, as if to see whether he meant 
that for a hit at me. I was n’t sure about it, so I kept still. 

“ Smashing good crop o’ hay this season ; beats every- 
thing ! ” said Mr. Green, lifting his left foot and holding 
it with his hand over the instep across his right knee. 
“Grass look well where you’ve been, Mr. Blazaway h or 
don’t you notice much about grass 1 ” 


286 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


I replied that, wherever I had taken the pains to ob- 
serve, everything looked to me exceedingly Green, keeping 
my eyes fixed steadily on him as I spoke. 

“ Sho ! ” said Mr. Green, looking at me steadily in re- 
turn, and scratching his chin. Then he turned and said 
in a hoarse whisper to Susie, “ What an all-fired wen that 
gentleman has got over his left eye ! ye noticed it 1 ” 

A wen 1 that was the bee-sting ! All-fired 1 it was all- 
fired ! Had Susie noticed it 1 In turning my face in 
order to stare down the insolent intruder who called me 
Mr. Blazaway, I had exposed the swelling, and Susie, who 
stole a glance at me just then, must also have seen it. 

Mr. Green reached deep into a pocket of his light sum- 
mer trousers, brought out a jack-knife, and commenced 
honing it on his shoe. 

“ Traded horses agin, Susie.” 

“ What a hand you are to swap horses, Peleg ! ” she 
said, thawing into conversation under his genial influ- 
ence. 

“ Put off the colt ; got a four-year-old chestnut ; nice, 
tell yeou ! Bring him round and let ye ride after him to- 
morrer.” 

“ Who did you trade with 1 ” said Miss Thornton. 

“ Stranger. DoW his name. Stumped him in the road. 
Says I, ‘ I got the mate to that beast you ’re drivin’, friend,’ 
says I. ‘ Hev ye ? ’ says he. ‘ Better hitch,’ says I, ‘ and 
jest step over in the lot here and see,’ says I. He said he 
did n’t object if I had anything to show ; so he tied to the 
fence, — mighty slick critter that of hisn ! * Yes,’ says I, 

‘ either you want my animil, or I want yourn, do’ no’ which 
till we talk,’ says I. Wa’al,we made a dicker,” added Pe- 
leg Green, shutting his knife with a loud click, and wink- 
ing significantly. 

He was going on to expatiate on the merits of the four- 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


287 


year-old chestnut, when, to my great relief, Mr. Thornton 
came to the door and called him out. 

“ I ’d like to speak with you a minute, Peleg.” And 
Peleg, though with visible reluctance, withdrew. 

I arose, walked straight to Susie, and frankly took her 
hand. She looked up with a frightened, inquiring glance, 
afraid, as I afterward learned, that I was going to propose 
to her on the spot. 

“ I am very glad,” I said, “ to have formed your ac- 
quaintance. I shall always remember you with interest, 
and if I ever come this way again I shall certainly do my- 
self the pleasure of visiting you.” 

She appeared quite bewildered a moment, then a gleam 
of intelligence brightened her face. 

“ Are you going, sir 1 ” And, as I was hurt to observe, 
the gleam became a gleam of delight. 

“ I have a call to make,” said I ; “ and after what is 
past we may as well be frank with each other. I think it 
is quite evident to us both that — ” 

“ That you don’t like me,” she said, while I was stam- 
mering. “ That ’s it ; and you need n’t take the trouble 
of putting it in some more polite way.” 

She laughed as she spoke ; all her embarrassment had 
vanished ; she looked radiant, even charming ; and alto- 
gether such a change had come over her that I was aston- 
ished. 

“ Rather say that you have not fallen in love with me” 
I answered. 

“ That ’s true, I have n’t ! ” she confessed, with re- 
freshing naivete. “ And do you blame me 1 I was almost 
frightened to death when I heard you were coming. And 
it was so odd, — just as Peleg would go and look at a colt 
he thought of buying ! ” 

I sincerely entreated her pardon for the affront. 


288 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


“ 0, no affront. I don’t care now, since you don’t want 
to marry me.” And she appeared quite joyous. 

“You are glad of that. Peleg will be glad too,” I 
could not help saying. 

“ Yes, I suppose he will,” she confessed, gayly. 

“ You like Mr. Green 1 ” 

“ 0 yes ; he amuses me ever so much. You don’t know 
how funny he can be. But you must n’t go now, sir,” she 
cried, taking my hat from me. “ Stay to tea, won’t you 'l ” 

I hardly know how it was ; but she had her way, and I 
stayed. 

“You must forgive me for laughing,” said Susie, only 
half penitently; “but you can’t guess how glad I was 
that you got stung. Don’t you think it was a judgment 
upon you 1 ” 

“ You knew it 1 ” I said, putting my hand to my egg ; for 
the swelling had about reached that size. 

“ Of course I did ; and that was the reason I could n’t 
look at you. But I am very sorry now, — indeed I am,” 
she added, compassionately, seeing how bad a sting it was. 
“ And to think Peleg took it for a wen ! ” 

At that she had to laugh again. But, on the whole, 
she manifested a good deal of true womanly sympathy for 
my suffering, and went out to prepare some salt and vine- 
gar, which she said was her mother’s remedy for stings. 

She did not return. But presently Mrs. Thornton came 
in, bringing a saucer with some liquid and a rag in it, 
dressed my brow, and took me out to tea. 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


289 


VI. 

mrs. thornton’s tea. 

We found Mr. Thornton and the little Thorntons wait- 
ing, — the distinguished urchins eying the table ravenously, 
as if they did not see cake every day. 

Then Susie and Peleg came out of the kitchen together, 
looking supremely satisfied with each other, and amazingly 
confidential. 

Mr. Thornton then let slip those dogs of war, the juniors, 
whose ardor he had with difficulty restrained, and with a 
rattle and a clatter and a rush they flew to the table, 
storming the bread and butter, scaling the salt-fish, carry- 
ing the breast-works of cold chicken, and assaulting the 
wings. 

In the mean time the lovers managed to get me into 
the seat designed for Peleg, while the chair intended for 
me, next to Susie, was coolly usurped by that gentleman. 
Peleg kept the youngsters in a constant roar of laughter 
with his jokes and queer contortions of face, which I was 
chagrined to see were greatly enjoyed by Susie. 

“ 0 Peleg ! ” she exclaimed at last, “ you ’ll certainly 
kill me with your ridiculous stories.” 

“Wa’al, then, I won’t tell any more,” said Peleg. 

' “ Fact, I ’in a melancholeric man myself, nat’rally. Studied 
to be a minister once : this is the way I looked,” — sleeking 
down his hair with a meek and droll expression. “ That 
was when I was Presbyterian. Then I turned Methodist, 
and looked so,” — and out of the tearful seriousness of a 
broad, unctuous countenance broke a sympathetic, hopeful 
smile. “ After that I thought of turning Baptist, and got 
as far as this,” — a sapient, hollow-cheeked visage, with a 
13 s 


290 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


one-sided pucker; “when I switched off on the Univer- 
salist track, as thus,” — changing instantly to the aspect of 
a fat and jolly parson. “ From that to swapping horses is 
the easiest thing in natur’. Then I looked so,” — putting 
his tongue in his cheek for a quid, and inclining his head 
sidewise, with the honestest smooth face, — “ and talked 
this way : That's a dreadful kind beast, my friend ; true 
and sound in every way ! ” — spoken with a good-natured 
drawl that convulsed the youngsters. 

I sympathized with Mrs. Thornton, who gravely reproved 
Mr. Green for his levity in taking off the different denomi- 
nations. 

“ Call hoss-jockeying one of the denominations 1 Wa’al, 
we have our backsliders too,” said Peleg, — “ from the backs 
of unbroke colts. Speaking of my being a melancholeric 
man, Susie, I was put in mind to-day how choleric I got 
when my melons was stole last summer. Met one o’ them 
fellers.” 

“ Did you 1 0, you must tell Mr. Blazay that story, 
Peleg ! ” 

And Peleg told it for my especial edification. 

“Ye see, Mr. Blazay, there’s a tribe over the mountain 
we call Shanghays, — gre’t slab-sided lummoxes, — legs so 
long they hev to go down sullar to tie their shoes ; and 
feet so big they hev to use the forks of the road for a boot- 
jack. Wa’al, a set of ’em come over to our pond a-fishing 
last summer, and as fish would n’t bite they concluded 
watermillions would (that ’s what they call ’em), and went 
over to my patch, a couple of ’em, to hook some ; when I 
happened along and ketched ’em at it. 

“ ‘Wa’al,’ says I, ‘how ye gitting onl Don’t be in a 
hurry,’ says I, as they dropped the melons and started to 
run. ‘Better take some with ye,’ says I. ‘Plenty of ’em. 
Fust-rate, too. Here, I can git ye some a good deal bet- 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


291 


ter than these.’ They felt awful cheap ; but I made ’em 
hold their arms, and loaded ’em up with the best I could 
find. ‘ There,’ says I, ‘ you see I know a great deal better 
than you do how to pick, so next time you want any, s’pos- 
ing you come and ask me. It looks as if I was mean 
about my melons, when folks hev to come and steal ’em,’ 
says I. 

“ So I let ’em go. But I thought I ’d like to hear what 
sort of a story they ’d tell the others ; so I cut around 
through the edge of the woods and got behind a stump by 
the pond, where I could see what was going on, though I 
could n’t hear much. They left their fishing and ripped 
open the melons, and appeared to be heving a glorious 
good time over ’em, when a dog they had along with ’em 
got hold of a rind, choked, and keeled over. They thought 
he was dead; and then you should have seen the old 
scratch that was to pay ! 1 Pizon ! pizon ! ’ I could hear 

’em spluttering. They thought I had plugged the melons 
and put arsenic into ’em ; which accounted for my picking 
out such partic’lar nice ones. They dropped their slices, 
and spit out what they ’d been eating, and made a stampede 
for the village, to the doctor’s; and about half an hour 
after they might have been seen going over the mountain, 
sick as death with epicac, for the doctor had give each on 
’em a rousing good dose. This is the way they looked,” 
And Peleg illustrated, while everybody laughed but me. 

I had had enough of that sort of thing. I arose to go, 
pleading an engagement. “A lady I met in the cars, 
Mrs.” — referring to the widow’s card — Mrs. Pellet.” 

“ Sho ! ” said Peleg. “ Not Mrs. Dr. Pellet, — Laury 
Scranton that was 1 ” 

“ The very same ; and a very interesting young widow, 
with twenty thousand dollars.” 

“ Widow ! ” gasped P. Green, with nobody’s face but his 


292 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


own this time ; and a very astonished face it was. “ See 
here, ye don’t say ! Dr. Pellet, he a’ n’t dead, is he ? ” 

I assured him that the excellent doctor was deceased. 

“ I take it he was a dear friend of yours, Mr. Green.” 

“ Yaas ! no ! I mean — S ’pose ye wait a minute ; guess 
I ’ll walk along with ye ; got my colts to look after ; seen 
my hat, Susie ? ” 

While Mr. Green, in his agitation, was hunting for his 
hat, I shook hands with the family, and accepted, because 
I could not refuse, an earnest invitation to a farmer’s din- 
ner the next day. I then departed, pursued wildly out of 
the house by Peleg, pulling on his hat. 


VII. 

p. green’s diplomacy. 

“ Think o’ going to see Laury — Mrs. Pellet — to-night? ” 
said Peleg. 

“ I have promised to call on her,” I answered, evasively. 

" I ’d no idee of her being a widow,” said Mr. Green, with 
an aguish shake in his voice. “ Got much acquainted 
with her ? Could n’t, though, I s’pose, jest seeing her in 
the cars. Seem to take the doctor’s death perty hard, 
or could n’t you judge as to that ? ” 

“ Not so hard but that she may be consoled, I should 
say.” 

“ Consoled ! yaas ! ” said Peleg, sardonically. “ Maybe 
you’d like to hev the privilege of consoling her. Would 
n’t you like now to hev me go and show ye where the 
house is?” 

“ 0 no, I would n’t have you put yourself to that 
trouble, Mr. Green.” 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


293 


“ No trouble at all, Mr. Blazay. Fact is, I — I ruther 
think ’t would be neighborly, if I sh’d drop in on her 
myself.” 

“ But, I beg of you, don’t go out of your way on my 
account.” 

“0 no! 0 no ! ” said Peleg, keeping close at my side. 
If I walked fast, he walked fast ; if I walked slow, he 
walked slow. “ As a friend, Mr. Blazay,” he said, confiden- 
tially, “ allow me to say to you that that bunch over your 
eye looks bad. Seems to me 1 should n’t want to be mak- 
ing calls on the ladies if I hed it.” 

“ Thank you, Mr. Green, for your very kind suggestion. 
But I hardly think one so afflicted as Mrs. Pellet will look 
much at externals. I can now find the house very well 
without your assistance. Good night.” And I turned the 
street corner. 

“ On the hull, guess I may as well go along too,” observed 
Peleg; “ me and Laury being old friends so.” 

I reminded him of his excuse for abruptly leaving the 
Thorntons, and expressed concern lest his colts should suf- 
fer from neglect. 

“ Waal, I guess the colts can take care o’ themselves for 
an hour or so,” said Mr. Green. 

We reached the house, and rang. 

“ Hello ! ” said Green, “ a’n’t you going in ? ” 

“ Not at this present moment,” I answered, walking off. 

“ Waal ! ” said the astonished Peleg, “ if I ’d known — 
Why did n’t you say, and not fool a fellow this way 1 ” 

At that moment the door opened, and I left him to call 
alone on the widow. 

Two hours later, strolling toward the house, I saw a 
person in light summer clothes come out ; heard a voice 
which I recognized as P. Green’s, and another which I dis- 
tinguished as the mourning voice of the young widow. 


294 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


They separated, and the light summer clothes came toward 
me at a fast walk, with an air of hurry and abstraction. 

“ Good evening, Mr. Green/’ I said, pleasantly. 

“ Hello ! that you, Mr. Blazay 1 ” said Peleg. “ Where 
ye bound now 1 ” 

“ Enjoying a little stroll,” I replied, leisurely. “ It ’s a 
charming evening.” 

“ It is so,” exclaimed Peleg, with returning agitation, 
“ but ruther cool.” 

“ It is,” said I, “ chilly. I should think you would suffer 
in those thin garments, Mr. Green.” 

“ Waal, my clo’es be ruther thin,” Peleg admitted. 

“ And, allow me to say, it seems to me your only safety 
is in a rapid continuation of your walk. I will not detain 
you an instant.” 

“ See here ! ” said Peleg ; “ ye a’n’t going in there to- 
night, air ye 1 After nine o’clock ! ” 

“ After nine 1 ” said I. “ Gentlemen seldom make calls 
before that hour, do they 1 ” 

I left him standing in his airy attire, gazing jealously 
after me. I returned to the door he had just quitted, and 
entered, admitted by the charming Mrs. Pellet herself. 

She received me with her sweetest subdued smile ; and, 
seated quietly at her side in her uncle’s parlor, after apolo- 
gizing for my unpresentable eyebrow, I had the pleasure of 
hearing from her own lips the full particulars of my busi- 
ness in Shoemake ; Susie having communicated them to 
P. Green, and P. Green to the widow. 

“ I little thought, when I praised her to you,” she said 
with gentle reproach, “ that I was praising your future 
bride.” 

“ Unfortunately for my hopes,” I said, “ Susie’s affec- 
tions seem to be already engaged.” 

“ Indeed ! who is the happy man 1” 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


295 


“Our friend who just went from here, — Mr. Peleg 
Green.” 

The mourning eyelashes were raised with an expression 
of mild and sorrowful surprise. 

“But Peleg — I am sure,” she said, “he doesn’t care 
for her.” 

“ Madam, he is her devoted admirer. You should have 
seen him fly to the rescue the moment he heard of my 
arrival. Indeed, so well satisfied am I of their mutual 
attachment, that I have quite abandoned my foolish pro- 
ject.” 

Mrs. Pellet heaved a sigh. 


VIII. 

ONE OF PELEG’S JOKES. 

The next day I dined with the Thorntons. 

Susie improved on acquaintance. After dinner she 
showed me her cheeses, and took me into the garden, and 
was gathering a bouquet for me ; and, as I may as well 
confess, a very delightful familiarity was growing up be- 
tween us, when — in rushed Mr. Green. 

Again, in the evening, I went to pay my respects to the 
widow, and was enjoying a very quiet and pleasing conver- 
sation with that charming lady, when — in popped Peleg. 
Which of the two fair ones did he fancy 1 or had he an 
Oriental preference for both ? 

Day after day, as I lingered in the place, without well 
knowing why, the fellow seemed to have given up his 
ordinary pursuits in order to devote himself exclusively to 
their guardianship. He followed me pertinaciously, from 


296 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


village to farm, and from farm to village, as if the great 
business of existence with him was to prevent any confi- 
dential communication between me and either of the 
aforesaid young women. 

Shrewd, energetic, good-looking, not half so illiterate as 
he appeared, making fun wherever he went, he was, I 
found, a very general favorite. But my original prejudice 
against him, instead of diminishing, increased, and became 
very violent when I observed that Susie, who had soon 
learned to entertain me with a simple grace, a bird-like 
joyousness, when we were alone together, invariably grew 
reserved toward me the moment he appeared. 

So two or three (I don’t know T but four) weeks passed. 
And still some fascination kept me in Shoemake. And still 
Mr. Green followed me with that suspicious nose of his, 
which I observed with satisfaction was long, and offered 
excellent conveniences for tweaking, until one afternoon 
found us four embarked in a sail boat on Shoemake Creek. 
I had invited Susie and Mrs. Pellet, and Peleg had invited 
himself, joining us just as we were getting into the boat. 

“ Hello ! ” said he, appearing very much astonished. 
“ Jest in the nick o’ time, a’ n’t I ? Seems to be plenty o’ 
room in yer canoe ; guess I may as well jump in.” 

And jump in he did accordingly, before I could push off. 

The water sets back a mile or more from the dam, and 
raises Shoemake Creek to the dignity of a river. Through 
green meadows it winds placidly between banks fringed 
w T ith alders, willows, and elms, festooned with woodbines 
and wild grapes. 

The wind failed us as we were returning, and I made 
Peleg work his passage. He rested on the oars, and we 
floated down the current, which was calm and glassy under 
the evening sky, and Susie sang a song that made me feel 
unusually sentimental, and the widow sigh, “ How sweet ! ” 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


297 


“ Waal, it is some sweet,” Peleg admitted, as we drifted 
around a bend of the stream, and came upon an exquis- 
itely tranquil picture of cool green water embowered in 
cool green foliage overhanging the bank. 

“ Gals, I’ma going to show ye the mill-dam,” said Peleg, 
rowing down stream. “ Did you ever see it, Mr. Blazay 1 I 
come perty nigh going over the dam thing once.” 

“ Peleg,” said the melancholy Laura, “ please don’t be 
profane, will you 1 ” 

“ No, I won’t,” said Peleg, solemnly. 11 1 mean the 
mill-d — m. Can’t guess how I saved myself, Mr. Bla- 
zay ? ” 

“ By using your nose for a setting-pole ? ” I suggested. 

“ Mr. Blazay,” said Peleg, “ I owe you one ! But my 
nose a’n’t quite so long as that man’s was who always had 
to take two steps forward to touch the end on ’t. He was 
brother to the man that was so tall ” (measuring me from 
head to foot) “ he had to go up a ladder to comb his hair. 
And he could run so — ’specially if a bee was after him — 
that, give him a fair chance, he could come out several 
rods ahead of his own shadow. He ran around an apple- 
tree once so fast that he ’most ketched up with himself, 
and could see his own coat-tails jest ahead of him.” 

So much I got for descending to the vulgarity of a per- 
sonal allusion. Even Laura was forced to smile, and Susie 
fairly screamed. 

“ Everybody laughs at those jokes ; I always do,” said 
I, “ whenever I hear them. I can remember laughing at 
them as long ago as when I was a small boy.” 

“ Them jokes 1 What very old bachelors they must be, 
then ! ” said the impudent fellow. “ They must be bald 
enough by this time ! How many years ago did you 
sayr’ 

“ We all admire your wit, Mr. Green,” I replied, sternly. 

13 * 


298 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


“But I would advise you just now to bestow your chief 
attention upon the management of the boat, for you are 
getting us into a dangerous position.” 

Peleg grinned as he turned the boat in the current, let- 
ting the stern swing around toward the dam. The swift, 
smooth water shot beneath us dark and strong, breaking 
into a silver curve almost within reach of my cane, then 
plunging with thunder and foam down into an agitated 
and vapory basin. Mr. Green suffered us to drift almost 
to the brink. I was in the stem, and could look straight 
over the falls. The girls screamed. 

“ Don’t be the least mite scared, gals,” said the facetious 
Peleg, keeping the boat on the verge with easy strokes of 
the oars. “ Even if she should go over I could ketch her 
Tore Mr. Blazay’s coat-tails touched the water, and row 
her right up over the dam again.” 

“ Mr. Green,” I cried, seriously, “ take care ! An oar 
may break, then over we go, — nothing could prevent it.” 

“ All but Laury,” said Peleg ; “ she can’t git over a dam, 
ye know ! ” 

“ By Heaven,” said I, alarmed, “ we are going ! ” 

“Yes, Blazay first,” chuckled Peleg. “ He likes to be 
first in everything.” 

“ I see,” said I, now much excited, “ I am destined to 
give that fellow a thrashing.” 

“ Sho ! ” said Mr. Green, “ I want to know. This is a 
leetle more fun than I bargained fur. I ’xpected the gals 
would be a trifle skittish, but I did n’t think Blazay would 
kick in the traces.” 

We were right over the smoking chasm, where a single 
false stroke of an oar might precipitate us into it. Susie, 
with a pale, frightened face, instinctively shrank to my 
side and clasped my arm. I felt a thrill, which made me 
for a moment forget the danger. The spray wet us, thun- 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


299 


der and mist filled the air, the whirlpool foamed and 
boiled below, and I was happy. 

“ 0 dear, dear Peleg ! ” pleaded Laura, her rich mel- 
low tones heard even above the roar of the falls, “ if you 
have any regard for me, don’t.” 

“ I can’t help it,” said Peleg, pretending to lose his 
power over the boat, and actually letting the stern project 
over the dam. 

I threw my arm around Susie, and she nestled trem- 
blingly to my heart. At the sight that wretch Peleg 
missed a stroke. The boat shot forward, — we hung upon 
the brink ! He struck the blades again, just in time to 
check our progress, and, putting forth all his strength, 
might have saved us, had not Laura, beside herself with 
terror, sprung up in the bow of the boat. 

“ Mercy ! ” she shrieked, and, flinging abroad her lovely 
arms, threw herself headlong upon Peleg. 

Of course that settled the business. The boat swept 
sheer over the dam with all on board, filling and capsizing 
instantly. 


IX. 

COLD WATER. 

A piercing shriek went up as we went down. It was 
the voice of Laura, which had cast off its mourning for the 
wet occasion. Susie uttered not a word, nor was Peleg 
able to make any remark, facetious or otherwise, with the 
widow clinging to his back, hugging and choking him 
desperately. 

I remember a brief tumult in the water, arms tossing, 
crinoline floating, the boat keel upward, the eddies rolling 


300 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


and sucking us. Then I was trying to swim with a 
precious burden, raising the dripping head above water, 
sinking inevitably, going down with the current, touch- 
ing gravel at last, and thanking my stars that I was 
tall. 

Wading, I emerged, bearing Susie in my arms, and 
carried her to the bank. 

“ Thank Heaven ! ” said I, “ you are safe.” 

She brushed her dripping hair from her eyes, strangled 
a little, and looked up. 

I was bending over her, kneeling. It was very roman- 
tic. I expected nothing less than that she would call me 
her preserver, and betray at once her gratitude and her 
love. She moved her lips, — her lovely but wet lips. I 
listened for their faintest murmur. And this is what she 
said, — 

“ Where ’s Peleg 1 ” 

“ What ’s Peleg to us ? ” I exclaimed, sentimentally. 

“ He ’s a good deal to us, — to me, at any rate ! ” she 
declared ; and I was obliged to tell her that Mr. Green had 
got the widow on the keel of the boat, which he was haul- 
ing to the opposite bank. 

“ Nobody drowned ” 

“ All safe, dearest ! ” 

“You needn’t call me dearest !” said Miss Thornton. 
And she actually struggled from my arms. 

“ Susie ! dearest Susie ! ” etc. 

I don’t remember the rest of my speech, and probably 
should not repeat it if I could. The truth is just this : I 
had fallen in love with this same Susie Thornton, and in 
the excitement of the moment I was betrayed into a rather 
ill-timed declaration. 

“ Mr. Blazay ! ” she exclaimed, in a strange tone, and 
with a strange look, in which were expressed, as I fondly 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


301 


believed, astonishment, rapture, alarm. “ How can you ! 
— you must not ! — Peleg ! ” 

I protested. She was very much agitated. She shivered 
in her drenched clothes. She laughed nervously. She ran 
down the stream and fished out my hat, which had floated 
ashore. 

“ Now we are even,” she said, with unnatural gayety. 
“ You have saved my life ; I have saved your hat : and 
one is of about as much consequence as the other ! Why 
did n’t you let me drown 1 You might as well ! ” 

“ All right ! ” shouted Peleg, having got Laura on the 
rocks. “ Accidents will happen, ye know, in the best reg- 
’lated families.” 

Susie and I set out, climbing the banks. The thunder 
of the dam grew faint behind us, and, looking back, I saw 
the cascade gleaming white in the twilight. 

“ Why, Susie, child ! where have you been 1 ” exclaimed 
Mrs. Thornton, as we entered the house. 

“ 0, we only just went over the dam, that ’s all,” said 
Susie. 

“ Over the dam ! ” cried mamma. 

“ The dam ! ” echoed papa. 

“ Dam ! — dam ! ” clamored little brothers, eagerly run- 
ning to hear their sister’s narrative of the shipwreck. 

I turned to go. Mr. Thornton grasped my hand. 

“ No, sir ! ” he said, with tears in his eyes, and with a 
squeeze that brought tears into mine. “You don’t leave 
this house to-night ! You have saved our darter’s life, 
and d’ ye s’pose we ’ll see you go off in your wet clo’es ? 
Not ’s long ’s my name ’s Thornton ! ” 

I fear I was only too willing to stay. I wanted one word 
of hope from Susie ; and although she appeared indifferent 
to my going, I did not go. 

“ Give him some o’ my clo’es to put on, can’t we, mother ?” 


302 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


said Mr. Thornton. “ This way, Mr. Blazay ; I can fit ye, 
I know ! ” 

He introduced me to the spare bedroom, and soon 
brought me my outfits I beheld with dismay the old- 
fashioned garments. But the antique style was their least 
objectionable feature. The dress-coat was of ample breadth, 
the waistcoat of voluptuous dimensions, the pantaloons 
baggy. But all were alike longitudinally scanty. They 
had been cut for a very much shorter and stumpier man. 
The ends of the sleeves reached a little below my elbows. 
The trousers-legs barely covered my knees, and appeared de- 
cidedly averse to making the acquaintance of the socks, 
whose position in the world was so much beneath them. 
Between waistbands and waistcoat I displayed a broad zone 
of borrowed linen. The collar of the coat rode my back 
like a horse-collar. 

Mr. Thornton rubbed his hands, and appeared hugely 
tickled at his success in clothing his guest. He held the 
candle for me at the mirror. I looked aghast at myself as 
I thought of meeting Susie. How could I think of press- 
ing my suit in a suit that so needed stretching ! 

I took courage, however, exhibited myself at the tea- 
table, and joined in the merriment my ridiculous plight 
occasioned. 

A delightful evening ensued. Susie was in high spirits ; 
vivacious and as sweet as Hebe, after her bath. And, 
further, my presence in the cottage did not prove a signal 
for Peleg to rush in. 

The heroes were sent to bed. The old folks shook hands 
with me affectionately, called me their darter’s preserver, 
and bade me good night. 

The moment I was left alone with Susie, her vivacity 
subsided : she became serious and silent. I placed myself 
at her side. The fragrant, dear little hand that lay idle on 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


303 


her lap, I could not resist the impulse to seize and kiss. 
She firmly and gently withdrew it. 

Then I talked ; telling her of my previous languid, arti- 
ficial life; confessing my self-conceit and my prejudices; 
avowing my infinite indebtedness to her for curing me of 
that folly, for inspiring me with new life, with hopes, with 
happiness, and all that sort of thing. 

“ Mr. Blazay,” she exclaimed, shivering anew with agita- 
tion, “ why do you tell me this now 1 ” 

“ Why not now 1 ” 

“ It is too late ! ” 

“ Too late 1 It is not too late, Susie, if you love me.” 

“ Sir,” she cried, almost angrily, “ you must not, I tell 
you you shall not, speak to me of love ! You have 
saved my life to-night ; I am grateful ; but — ” She hesi- 
tated. 

“ Say it ! Say the worst ! ” 

She lifted her face, — tearful, white, inexorable, — and 
fixed her eyes upon me with a look I shall never forget. 

“ Mr. Blazay, I am engaged.” 

This she said with that chilling resoluteness of tone 
which falls upon a lover’s heart like death. 

I began to rave foolishly of perfidy, of the trap that 
was laid for me when I came to pay my addresses to one 
who was already secretly betrothed. 

“ Oh ! but I was not when you came ! ” 

“What!” I exclaimed, “you have engaged yourself 
since 1 ” 

“ I have,” said Susie. 

“ When 1 To whom 1 ” 

“ The evening after you arrived, to Peleg.” 

I leaped to my feet. Wrath and disgust almost stifled 
love. It was the last shock to my egotism to know that 
she had accepted Peleg after she had seen me! I would 


304 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


have rushed from the house, but I saw Susie laughing. Dis- 
tressed as she was, she could not but laugh to see me strid- 
ing thus to and fro ; and then I remembered whose gar- 
ments were drying by the kitchen fire, and whose I had on 
in their place. 

It was but a fitful, nervous laugh, however, and it changed 
suddenly to crying. That brought me to her feet. I 
claimed her ; I vowed that she loved me ; I knew it, and I 
would not give her up ; and more to the same effect. 

Susie cut me short, arose in her dignity, and pointed to 
the candle. 

“ The light is at your service, sir, whenever you wish to 
retire.” 

I took it, and, without bidding her good night, went, not 
to bed, but to the kitchen where my clothes were drying, 
carried them to my room, put them on again, returned to 
the entry, placed the candle on the table, and was going. 

Susie, who had been sitting in the dark, came out of the 
parlor and stood before me with a face like death. 

“Are you going 

“ I am going.” 

“ Never to come again 1 ” 

“ Never to come again.” 

“ Good by ! ” she whispered, just audibly, offering me 
her hand. I pressed it, I kissed it. 

“ Susie,” I pleaded, “ say that you will not marry that 
man ! ” 

“ I have pledged myself ; I shall marry him,” she replied, 
in a voice that smote my heart like stone. 

I regarded her a moment, — so fair, so inexorable ; an- 
other’s, and not mine, — then hurried from the house. 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


305 


X. 


MY TRUNK IS PACKED. 

Out of doors all was hushed and quiet. How well I re- 
member that night ! A dewy, midsummer night. And 
there, standing beneath the moon and the dim stars, I had 
a feeling to which the gayest may sometimes be brought, 
' — a piercing sense of loneliness, as if I alone of all the 
world was without a home ; an alien in the beautiful, 
calm universe of God. 

I heard the throbbing murmur of the dam. I wandered 
toward it, saw its misty whiteness glitter in the moon, 
stood on the bank where I had first held Susie in my arms, 
and tortured myself with vain regrets. After I had done 
that long enough I walked back again, saw the light ex- 
tinguished in the farm-house, and knew Susie had gone to 
bed. To sleep, perhaps to dream — of Peleg. I grinned 
bitterly at the thought ; and bidding her farewell in my 
heart, and taking my last look at her window, I returned 
to the tavern. 

I packed my traps, tljen threw myself down, and rolled 
and tossed in the long, dark hours, as it were in black 
sweltering waves, the miserablest of men ; heard the birds 
chirp, and saw the first gray glimmer of dawn ; then sank 
into a feverish sleep and dreamed that Peleg took us all to 
ride on the river in the handle of his jack-knife, with the 
blade hoisted for a sail. 

Awakened by Peleg’s shutting the blade, I found it was 
broad day. I arose and dressed with care. I breakfasted 
as usual. Then I had my luggage brought down stairs, to 
be in readiness for the early train. Then I paid my bill. 
Then the landlady came and told me there was a person 

T 


306 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


waiting to see me in the parlor. Then I went into the 
parlor ; and there, sitting with her bonnet on, and with a 
little can of honey in her lap, was Susie Thornton. 

My heart gave a great bound at sight of her. But I 
saw at once that it was not an occasion to afford me the 
least ground of hope. Unwillingly she had come, sent by 
her parents, who did not guess, and to whom she did not 
confess, her reason for not wishing to come. 

“ Mother promised you some honey, you remember. 
And when I told her you were goingj.she blamed me for 
not giving it to you, and made me come and bring it, with 
her best wishes, — and father’s.” 

She got through her errand very prettily. I took the 
can, thanking her. But 0, it was a sweeter honey than 
that my soul hungered for. 1 took her hand. She burst 
into tears. She stayed only to dry them, and was going, 
when a loud, blatant voice at the door startled us. 

“ Seen Mr. Blazay anywheres around this morning, any 
on ye 1 ” 

“ Pel eg ! ” gasped Susie. 

“ He ’ll be gone in a minute ; wait here,” I said, fling- 
ing the long damask window-curtain over her. 

Enter Peleg. 


XI. 

P. GREEN SHOWS HIS COLORS. 

“ Hello ! how do ye find yerself after that rather damp 
time, Mr. Blazay, hey 1 ” 

“ Ah, good morning, sir ! I feel, for one, as if I had 
had about enough of Shoemake and the kind of jokes 
you practise here.” 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


307 


“ Sho ! a’n’t going off huffy, be ye 1 See a trunk and 
carpet-bag in the entry here, H. Blazay marked on ’em ; 
sorry you ’re going.” And Mr. Green sat down. 

“ Have you any business with me 1 ” I demanded. “ For 
my time is occupied.” 

“Waal, no, yaas, not exac’ly; do’n’ know but I hev, 
and don’t know as I hev. Truth is, you ’ve got me into 
the all-firedest scrape, Mr. Blazay.” 

“ I have got you into a — Explain yourself ! ” 

“ Yaas, you hev ! an awful scrape ! ” And Peleg opened 
and shut his jack-knife vivaciously. “ An’ now, seems to 
me, Mr. Blazay, ’t a’n’t exac’ly the fair thing for you to 
scoot off so and leave me in the lurch.” 

“ What do you mean, sir ” 

“ Waal, to come to the pint, it ’s jest this : I ’d got 
the idee into my head you was coming up here to marry 
Susie, and, ye see, that ’s what upset all my ca’c’lations. 
Fact is, may as well own up, I had a sneakin’ notion after 
Susie myself; and so, ye see, when I heard a dandified 
sort o’ chap had come to town, and marched up to Neigh- 
bor Thornton’s as if he owned all this part of creation and 
had come to collect his rents, I allow it did give me the 
all-firedest stirring up ever I had in my life ! I was n’t 
long gitting into some clean clo’es, you better believe, and 
making tracks that way myself, — about the time you was 
making a bee-line from the orchard, ye rec’lect ! ” 

“ Mr. Green,” said I, stripping back my cuffs, “ I have 
long owed that nose of yours a wrench, and I perceive that 
you have brought it here to afford me a gratification.” 

“Yaas, I guess not! ” said Peleg, coolly. “Excuse me, 
Mr. Blazay ! ” And he stuck up the blade of his knife in 
a manner that rather discouraged my advances. “I re- 
member what you said last night about giving me a 
thrashing; but thrashing goes against my grain, as the 


308 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


barley said to the flail. Hed n’t ye better wait and hear 
what I ’ve got to say 1 ” 

“ Go on,” I said, mastering my indignation. 

“ Waal, as I was going to remark, you hurried up my 
pop-corn, Mr. Blazay, a leetle faster ’n I meant to hev it.” 

“ Pop-corn, sir ! what do you mean 1 ” 

“ 0, you a’n’t acquainted with that kind o’ confection- 
ery 1 Plain English, then, I watched my chance, and, that 
very night, ’fore supper, popped — you know what — the 
question. And she took me right up, as I knew of course 
she would.” And Peleg felt the edge of his knife com- 
placently. “ That ’s what you made me do, Mr. Blazay ; 
and now I ’m bothered if I would n’t give boot if the thing 
was unpopped. Come ! ” crossing his legs and talking very 
much as if he had been trading horses, “ what do you say 
to a bargain now 1 ” 

The curtain was trembling. To prevent Mr. Green’s 
observing it I rushed upon him, towered over him, and 
exclaimed, “ You knave ! you have not even been willing that 
I should speak with Susie ; but you have driven the wedge 
of that nose of yours between us on every occasion ; and 
now — ” 

Peleg quietly stroked the said nose, and smiled. 

“ Lemme explain, Mr. Blazay. Ye see, all along, I 
wasn’t quite sure o’ the widow. Laury’s an old flame o’ 
mine, ye know. Offered myself to her six years ago ; as 
it happened, jest after she had accepted Dr. Pellet, so, of 
course, I give her up. And, a’n’t it curi’s, I never heard 
of Pellet’s death till the very evening I ’d engaged myself 
to Susie ! Do be so obliging as to keep your hands off’m 
me, Mr. Blazay, and I ’ll tell ye. Then, of course, the old 
feelings for Laury kind o’ come up again, and I can’t say 
that the twenty thousan’ Pellet left her discouraged me in 
the least. Now, I was afraid you was after the widow, 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


309 


and I wanted the widow. I had a suspicion you was after 
Susie ; and, if I could n’t git the widow, I wanted Susie. 
So there I was on the fence. Keep yer temper, keep yer 
temper, Mr. Blazay, and I ’ll continue. Want to know the 
reason why I did n’t propose right off to Laury 1 I ’d 
already got one bird, and what should I do with twol 
But I might ’a* give you a chance with Susie, mabby you 
think 1 But ’t a’n’t in natur’, is it, ’t I sh’d give the cat a 
bird in the hand, and take my chance for one in the bush 1 
That ’s jest the case, Mr. Blazay.” 

“ Well, sir ! ” 

“ Waal, sir,” resumed Peleg, “last night, after the duck- 
ing, you know, I took Laury home. And in the excite- 
ment I kind o’ forgot myself. I may as well own, I popped 
the question to her too. She accepted me, of course ; 
might ’a’ known she would. That ’s the scrape, Mr. Blazay. 
Engaged to two gals to once ! ” And he put his head 
shrewdly on one side, as if studying some smart plan of 
extricating himself. 

“Well, sir ! well, sir ! what can I do for you 1 ?” 

“Waal,” drawled the jockey, “didn’t know but you’d 
like to take one on ’em off my hands. Good respectable 
girls, both on ’em ; kind o’ hate to break any hearts, or 
git into a breach-o’-promise scrape ; but I can’t marry 
both, you know, without emigrating to Utah.” 

“Well, Mr. Green, of which of these deluded young wo- 
men do you desire to be relieved ? ” 

“I s’pose,” said Peleg, “as I come first, knowed both of 
them, and kinder got my feelings engaged afore you did, 
it ’s only fair I sh’d hev the first pick. Now lemme see 
which I ’ll take. Now there ’s Susie — awful nice gal — 
handy about the house, you know — make a first-rate wife ; 
not bad off either. S’pose old Thornton could give her a 
couple o’ thousand now, and mabby three thousand more 


310 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


when he dies. Not bad, if a feller can’t do better. But 
then there ’s Laury ’s got twenty thousand right in hand ; 
that ’ud kinder set a feller up at once, — no waitin’ for dead 
men’s shoes ; an’ besides, she took a shine to me ’fore 
Susie ever did, — that ought to be taken into the account ; 
and I somehow think she ’d take the disappintment o’ 
losing me harder ’n Susie will ; and then you come here, 
you know, to court Susie, and not Laury. So, on the 
hull, if it ’s the same thing to you, ’pears to me it ’s ’bout 
the fair thing for me to take Laury, and let you have — ” 

At this instant the curtain was flung aside. Peleg 
stopped, Peleg stared, Peleg grimaced and whistled. 

“ Phew ! Who ’d ’a’ thought it ! Susie ! ” 


XII. 

CONCLUSION. 

There she stood, in an attitude that might have done 
credit to Rachel, her eyes, her face, her whole form, so to 
speak, scintillant and quivering with intensified scorn. 

Peleg stretched himself up, plunged his hands deep into 
his pockets, screwed up first one side of his face and then 
the other, and repeated his astonished whistle. 

“ Whew ! Told ye so ! ” squinting at me. “ Awful 
scrape ! perfectly awful ! ” 

“ Mr. Green,” said I, “ the lady desires to be rid of your 
society. I am waiting to see her very reasonable wishes 
complied with.” 

“ Don’t be rolling up yer sleeves on my account ! don’t 
spread yerself so like a cat a falling jest for me ! Ruther 
guess I’m in a bad fix, and had better back right straight 


MR. BLAZAY’S EXPERIENCE. 


311 


out. Ye see, Susie, no mortal man could ’a’ ca’c’lated on 
Laury’s turning up a widow jest as I had hooked myself to 
you. Now I ha’n’t the least thing agin you in the world; 
and I did n’t mean to flunk out when I made the bargain. 
But my old attachment to Laury, ye know ; and here ’s 
Mr. Blazay, a perfect gentleman, got property, likes you ; 
and if you are satisfied with the swap — ” 

She stamped her foot again, her eyes darting fire. 

“ Shall I hasten his departure 1 ” I suggested. “ Door or 
window, which would you prefer to see him pass out o£l” 

“ Don’t trouble yourself, I beg of ye ! ” said Peleg. 
“ You seem to understand each other, and I ’m glad on ’t,” 
scratching his chin. “We ’ll consider it settled, if you ’ve 
no objections. Hope the trade ’ll prove satisfactory all 
around. Ruther dull morning, Mr. Blazay. Look ’s 
though ’t might clear up and be fine bimeby, — ’bout ten 
o’clock, I guess. And allow me to say, Mr. Blazay, if I ’ve 
got a colt, or any animil you happen to want, I shall be 
most happy to talk. Waal, any time, ye know. Good 
morning.” 

Exit Peleg. 

Susie arranged her bonnet-strings with agitated hands, 
and was hurrying away in haste to hide her anger and her 
shame, when I held out my arms to prevent her escape, 
and — 

“ Come ! come ! ” says Mrs. Blazay, looking over my 
shoulder, “ you ’ve written quite enough about that foolish 
affair ! Besides, I want you to take the baby.” 

Susie’s word is law. So I leave my story here. 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


i. 


MR. JERVEY’S PART OF THE STORY. 

“ T AM one of the keepers at the Asylum, you know. 

-L “The Asylum stands on a hill; not much of a 
hill, either, but just a pretty elevation of ground, with a 
noble lawn sloping down to the river-bank, from which it 
is separated by a high board fence. None of your com- 
monplace fences, understand, such as seem often to have 
no other use than just to spoil a landscape. You would 
say that, as a general thing, a fence like that about an 
estate must be designed for keeping people out. This, 
though, was meant to keep people in. The people, in 
our case, are the inmates of the Asylum. ” And Mr. Jervey 
touched his forehead significantly. 

“ There was a wicket in the fence, that opened into a 
boat-house, that opened at the other end on to the water. 
There the doctor kept his boat, in which we gave the 
patients many a fine row and sail. For he was one of 
your right-down sensible, kind-hearted doctors; none of 
your — Well, I won’t draw comparisons, for fear I may be 
considered wanting in respect toward his very worthy suc- 
cessor. 

“He — I mean the old doctor — believed in the whole- 
some influence of kindness and change of scene and mild 
recreation on his patients. So he was always thinking of 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


313 


little things that would cheer and amuse them. Saturday 
nights, and occasionally at other times, the boat-house was 
turned into a bathing-house for a certain class of patients. 
Of course it was only a certain class that could be trusted 
either to go on or into the water. ‘It always has 
a good effect to trust those that can be trusted/ says 
the doctor. Then, you know, the boat and the bath, and 
all such things, worked well, held out as rewards for 
good behavior. 

“ One Sunday morning, a new patient we had just got in 
complained to me that he had been promised a swim in 
the river, but that nothing had been said to him when the 
others went in the night before. He was so very anxious 
for his bath that morning, that I thought ’t would do no 
harm to lay his case before the doctor. 

“ ‘ What do you think of him, Jervey 1 ’ says the doctor. 

“ ‘ Very quiet, very gentlemanly/ says I. 

“ ‘ Bring him to me/ says the doctor. 

“ So I went and brought Mr. Hillbright, — for that was 
the man’s name, — and introduced him with the little for- 
mality usually pleasing to that kind of people. 

“ ‘ Mr. Hillbright, Doctor/ says I. 

“‘Ah! good morning, Mr. Hillbright/ says the doctor. 
‘ How are you this morning 1 ’ 

“ ‘ Very well indeed, Doctor, I thank you kindly/ says 
the patient. He was a man of about five-and-forty, well 
dressed, and very gentlemanly, as I have said ; belonged to 
a good family ; rather fleshy ; a little bald on the top of 
his head ; but with nothing very peculiar in his appearance 
except a quick way of speaking, and a quick way of drop- 
ping his eyes before you every now and then. ‘Very well 
indeed, Doctor/ says he ; ‘ only the sins of the world weigh 
upon me very heavily, as you are aware.’ And in the most 
solemn manner he bowed that bald-topped head of his until 


314 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


the doctor, where he sat, could have reached up and writ- 
ten his name on it. 

44 4 0 yes, I know/ says the doctor. 1 They weigh upon 
me too. But we shall get rid of the burden in good time, 
— all in good time, Mr. Hillbright.’ 

“ That was the doctor’s style of managing patients of 
this sort. It did no good to contradict them, he said, but 
if you could convince one that his case was n’t peculiar, 
that others had had similar troubles and been cured of 
’em, that was the first step toward bringing him around 
to his right senses. So, if one complained that he had a 
devil, the doctor would very likely relate to him in confi- 
dence how he had had a much bigger devil, and how he 
had got rid of him. ‘ I ’m in hell ! I’m in hell, Doctor ! ’ 
says a woman to him. ‘ I don’t doubt it ; a great many 
people are,’ says the doctor ; 4 I have been there myself.’ 
And that would usually throw cold water on the fire sooner 
than anything. 

44 Hillbright was quite taken aback by the doctor’s candid 
admission and expression of sympathy ; for I suppose he 
had never been treated with anything but contradiction 
and argument till he came to us. But he rallied in a 
minute and said, glib as a parrot, ‘I have taken the 
sins of the world,’ says he, £ and I must bear them till 
I am permited to preach and convert the world. Mean- 
while the world hates me, and all I can do for my re- 
lief is to go down into the river and be baptized. I 
need n’t explain to a philosopher like you,’ says he, bow- 
ing again to the doctor, 4 that some of the sins will wash 
off.’ 

“ The doctor approved of the idea, and said : ‘Jervey,’ 
says he, 4 always have a bath-tub at Mr. Hillbright’s dis- 
posal.’ 

4 4 4 A bath-tub 1 ’ says Hillbright, with a sort of sorrowful 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


315 


amazement ; 1 the sins of the world in a bath-tub 1 The 
ocean would n’t hold them ! ’ 

“‘Jervey,’ says the doctor, ‘give the sins of the world 
a good plunge into the river this morning.’ 

“ So I took the key of the boat-house and went down 
with my man to the shore. 

“ He had n’t been long in the water when he made an 
awful discovery. The sins would n’t wash off ! He must 
have soap, and there was only one sort that would serve 
his purpose. He said I would find a cake of it on the lit- 
tle table in his room, and begged me to go and get it. 

“ I did n’t like to lose sight of him ; but the doctor had 
told me always to humor his patients in trifling matters 
which they considered important. ‘ For even if we can’t 
cure ’em,’ says he, ‘ we can at least make ’em comfortable ’ ; 
and going for a cake of soap was so little trouble, and be- 
sides, as I said, Hillbright was such a quiet, respectable, 
gentlemanly person, I thought him safe, especially if I 
kept possession of his clothes. They were in the boat- 
house locker, where I always kept the clothes of the bath- 
ers ; so I just turned the key on ’em and went for the 
soap, leaving Mr. Hillbright to give the sins of the world a 
good soaking till I came back. 

“ I had a pretty good hunt, finding nothing on his table 
but a small pocket Bible, about the size and shape of the 
thing I expected to find, but not the thing itself. It oc- 
curred to me in a minute, though, that this was really 
what the man wanted ; for where else was the kind of 
soap that would wash away the sins of the world 1 I 
grinned a little at my own previous simplicity, but deter- 
mined that nobody else should have a chance to grin at 
it, least of all my man in the water ; so I took the Bible, 
and says I to myself, ‘ I ’ll hand it to him as if it was 
actually a cake of soap, and I had understood his subtle 


316 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


meaning from the first ; and then see what he will do 
with it.’ 

“ I unlocked the little door in the fence, and entered the 
boat-house, and was immediately struck by an odd look it 
had, as if something strange had taken place in my absence. 
The boat — yes, that was it — the boat was gone ! I ran 
along the narrow side of the platform to the door opening 
on the river, and looked out, — about as anxiously as I 
ever looked out of a door in my life : there was the river, 
running smoothly, and looking as innocent of the sins of 
the world, and the morning was looking as still and lovely, 
as any river or any Sunday morning that ever you saw. 
But there was no boat and no Hillbright to be seen ; 
boat, Hillbright, sins of the world, all had disappeared 
together. 

“ I ran back to the locker, and found the man’s clothes 
all right. My respectable, gentlemanly patient had 
launched himself into society in a surprising state of 
nature, — a thing I had n’t for a moment believed him 
capable of doing, he was always so very distant, I may 
say formal, in his deportment. What with his mystical 
cake of soap, and his running away as soon as I was out 
of sight, I own he had fooled me most completely. 

“ Now, I lay it down as a general principle that nobody 
likes to be taken in, even by a man in his senses. Still 
less do you fancy that sort of humiliation from a man out 
of his senses. Then put the case of a person in my posi- 
tion, — a keeper, supposed to have more experience and 
wit in dealing with the insane than you outsiders can have, 
— and you perceive how very crushing a circumstance it 
must have been to me. 

“ I ran like a deer down the river-bank, till I came to 
the bend, around which I felt sure of getting a sight of the 
boat. I was right there ; I found the boat, but it was 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


317 


adrift, and going down with the current, without anybody 
aboard. There was no Hillbright to be seen, afloat or 
ashore, and it was n’t possible to tell which way he had 
gone, for the high fence had concealed his movements, and 
then the river-banks below were fringed with trees and 
bushes on both sides. So all I could do was to hurry back 
to the house, give the alarm, and get all hands out on the 
hunt for him, that fine Sunday morning.” 

Thus far our friend Jervey. 


II. 

PARSON DODD AND THE BAY MARE. 

Parson Dodd was to be that day a partner in a triangu- 
lar exchange. That is, Dodd was to preach for Selwyn, 
Selwyn was to preach for Burdick, and Burdick was to 
preach for Dodd. 

From Dodd’s parish at Coldwater to Selwyn’s at Long- 
trot was a distance of some fourteen miles. Just a nice 
little Sunday morning’s drive in fine weather ; and one to 
which Dodd looked forward with interest, for two or three 
reasons. 

To begin with, Dodd was a bachelor of full five-and- 
forty. He had always intended to marry, but being one 
of your procrastinating gentlemen, who make it a rule to 
put off until to-morrow whatever they are not absolutely 
compelled to do to-day, he had, with other things, put off 
matrimony. He had even paid somewhat marked and 
prolonged attentions — at different periods, of course — to 
three or four ladies, each of whom had in turn been 
snatched up by a more enterprising suitor, while he was 


318 


PKEACHING FOR SELWYN. 


slowly making up his mind on the subject of a proposal. 
Very much as if he had been contemplating a fair morsel 
on his fork, expecting in due time to swallow it, but in no 
haste to do so, when some puppy had rushed in and swal- 
lowed it for him, with a celerity that quite took the good 
man’s breath away. 

Not that Garcey was a puppy, by any means. He was 
a brother clergyman, and Selwyn’s predecessor at Long- 
trot ; and there was a time when be liked wonderfully 
well to come over and preach for Dodd. And that is the 
way he became connected with the romance of Dodd’s life. 

To the last of the estimable ladies alluded to — namely, 
Miss Melissa Wortleby, of his parish — Dodd did actually 
propose matrimony, after taking about five years to think 
of it. But Miss Wortleby was then aghast at an offer 
which would have made her the happiest of women three 
days ago. 

“ Dear me, Mr. Dodd ! ” said she. “ Why did n’t you 
ever tell me, if you had such a thing in your mind 1 ” 

The parson stammered out that a serious step of that 
nature was not to be taken in haste. “There’s always 
time enough, you are aware, Miss Wortleby.” 

“Yes,” said poor Miss Wortleby, with a look of distress; 
“ but Mr. Garcey — he — he proposed to me last Sunday, 
and I — ” 

“ You accepted him 1 ” said Parson Dodd, turning pale 
at this unexpected stroke. 

Miss Wortleby ’s tears were a sufficient confession. 

“ The traitor ! ” said Parson Dodd. “ He took advan- 
tage of our exchange to offer himself to you. He has taken 
advantage of many another exchange, I suppose, to come 
over and cultivate your acquaintance. Always teasing me 
for an exchange — the vil — ” 

“ No, no, dear Mr. Dodd ! ” pleaded Melissa Wortleby, 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


319 


clasping his hands. “ He is no traitor and no villain. He 
had no idea, any more than I had, that you — ” 

“To be sure, ” said Parson Dodd, resuming that serene 
behavior and those just sentiments which were habitual 
with him. “ I have nobody to blame but myself, dear 
Miss Wortleby.” 

Dodd must have seen that he was really the young 
lady’s choice, and that it would have been no very difficult 
task to prevail upon her to cancel her hasty engagement 
with Garcey. But we must do him the justice to say that 
if he was given to procrastination in matters of right, he 
was still more slow to decide upon any course of doubtful 
morality. So he stepped gracefully aside, and gave the 
pair to each other in a very literal sense, himself perform- 
ing the wedding ceremony. 

Garcey was settled, as I said, in what was now Selwyn’s 
parish ; there he lived with his gentle Melissa, preached 
two or three times a week (exchanging very rarely with 
Dodd in those days, however), and laid the foundations of 
a wide reputation and a large family. Then he died, leav- 
ing to his afflicted widow a barrel of sermons and six chil- 
dren. 

Melissa still lived at the parsonage over at Longtrot, 
and boarded Selwyn, the young theological sprig, lately 
slipped from the academical tree and planted in that par- 
ish in the hope that he might take root there. It was 
even whispered that he was likely to take root there in a 
double sense, succeeding the lamented Garcey not only in 
the pulpit, but also in Mrs. Garcey’s affections. But of 
course there was no truth in that suspicion. Parson Dodd 
must have known there was no truth in it, for he would 
have been the last man to serve another as poor Garcey 
had served him. And somehow Dodd liked to preach for 
Selwyn. 


320 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


To be quite frank about the matter, Parson Dodd had 
lately awakened one morning and discovered to his surprise 
the marks of age creeping over him. His crown was get- 
ting bald, his waistcoat round, his hair (what there was of 
it) silvery (but he wore a wig), his frontal ivory golden. 
Until yesterday he had said of growing old, as of every- 
thing else, “ Time enough for that.” But however man 
may procrastinate, the old fellow with the scythe and the 
forelock is always about his work ; and here was Dodd’s 
field of life more than half mown before he knew it. 
“ Only a little patch of withered herbage left ! ” thought 
he with consternation. 

Of course no young lady would think of having him now. 
He might have deemed his case hopeless, but there was 
the mother of Garcey’s innocents ! I ’ll not say that these 
living monuments to the memory of his late friend were 
not just a little dampening to the ardor of his reviving 
attachment. Of all the ready-made articles with wdiich the 
world abounds, one of the least desirable is a ready made 
family. To bear with easy grace a weighty domestic re- 
sponsibility (and a wife and six may be considered such), 
one should begin with it at the beginning, like the man in 
the fable, who, by shouldering the calf daily, came at last 
to carry the ox. But to commence married life where 
another man has left off, that requires courage. But Dodd 
was a man of courage ; one of those who, irresolute and 
dilatory in ordinary matters, show unexpected pluck in the 
face of formidable undertakings. He had thought of all 
these things. And, as I have said, he liked to preach for 
Selwyn. 

Usually, when he had that privilege, he drove over to 
Longtrot early in the morning, put up his horse at the par- 
sonage, and had a good hour with the relict of the lamented 
Garcey before the ringing of the second bell. An hour 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


321 


spent probably in Scriptural readings and conversations, or 
perhaps in drilling the little Garceys in their Sunday- 
school lessons. Whatever the pious task, his heart was 
evidently in it ; for it was always noticeable afterward 
when he walked to church with the widow and her little 
tribe, leading the youngest between them, that his kind 
face beamed with peculiar satisfaction. 

But, as I have hinted, there was other cause for the 
interest with which Parson Dodd looked forward to this 
particular Sunday morning’s ride. Shall I confess it 1 The 
worthy man, having no family, was a lover of animals, espe- 
cially of horses, — more especially of fine horses. He had 
lately exchanged nags (an act which in a layman is termed 
“swapping”) and got a bay mare; to his experienced eye 
a very superior beast to the one he put away. He had 
as yet had no opportunity to try her paces for more than 
a short spirt ; but he liked the way she carried her hoofs, 
and he believed her to be “ sound and true.” He had her 
of a townsman, — Colonel Jakes, — who, though something 
of a jockey, was never known actually to lie about a horse ; 
and Colonel Jakes had said, as he turned the quid in his 
cheek, and squinted with a professional air across the 
mare’s fetlocks, and looked candid as a summer’s day, 
“ There ’s lots of travel in that beast, Parson. You see 
how she goes off ; and it ’s my experience she ’s poorest at 
the start. Yes, Parson, I give ye my word, you’ll find 
that creatur’s generally poorest at the start. You ’ll say 
so when you ’ve drove her a little.” 

It was a lovely morning, and the heart of Parson Dodd 
was happy in his breast, when he set off, at half past seven 
o’clock, alone in his buggy, driving the bay mare, to go 
over and preach for Selwyn. 

He was very carefully dressed in his dark brown wig, 
his suit of handsome blue-black cloth, and ruffled shirt- 
14 * 


u 


322 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


bosom of snowy whiteness, which distinguished him among 
clergymen far and near. “ Let me see that coat and that 
shirt-bosom anywhere, and I should know it was you,” said 
Mrs. Bean, with just pride in her washing and in her min- 
ister, that very morning. “But,” her eye resting with 
some surprise on his neckcloth, “where did you git that 
imbroidered new white neck-handkerchief 1 ” 

“A gift, — a gift from a lady,” replied Parson Dodd, 
evasively. 

He was not quite prepared to inform her that his ap- 
pearance in it foreboded a change in her housekeeping. 
But so it was. In the note that came with it a few days 
before, Melissa had written with a trembling hand : “ I em- 
broidered it for my dear husband. Will you accept and 
wear it!” Of course, these simple, pathetic words were 
not in any way designed as a nudge to Dodd’s well-known 
procrastinating disposition. Yet he could not but feel that 
putting on the neckcloth that morning was as good as 
tying the matrimonial halter under his chin. 

“ Wal, I don’t care, it ’s perty anyhow ! ” said Mrs. Bean. 

So Parson Dodd started off, wearing the fatal neckcloth, 
and driving the bay mare. Her coat was glossy as silk ; 
the air was exhilarating ; the birds sang sweetly ; she 
stepped off beautifully. He knew Melissa would be ex- 
pecting him, and he was happy. 

“ But hold on ! ” said he, pulling the rein all at once. 
“ Bless me, my sermon ! ” The bay mare and the em- 
broidered neckcloth had quite put that out of his head. 
“If I had really gone without it, I should have had to 
overhaul some of poor Garcey’s,” thought he, as he wheeled 
about. 

He wheeled again as he drove up to the gate, and called 
to Mrs. Bean to go into his study and hand him down his 
sermon-case, which she would find lying on his desk. As 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


323 


she reached it to him over the gate, he remarked, “You 
have n’t seen how she moves off.” 

“ No, I ha’n’t,” said Mrs. Bean. 

Parson Dodd tightened the reins, — those electric con- 
ductors through which every born driver knows how to 
send magnetic intelligence, the soul of the man at one 
end inspiring the soul of the horse at the other. And Par- 
son Dodd clucked lightly. But Queen Bess (that was the 
name of her) did not move. A louder cluck, and a closer 
tension of the quivering ribbons. Queen Bess merely laid 
her ears back, curled down her tail as if she expected a blow, 
and — Dodd could see by the sparkling black eye turned 
back at him — looked vicious. 

“ Go ’long ! ” said Parson Dodd, showing the whip. 

Queen Bess quietly braced herself. She was evidently 
used to this sort of thing, and prepared for a struggle. 
Parson Dodd saw the situation at a glance, remembered 
the jockey’s declaration that she was “generally poorest 
at the start,” and blushed to the apex of his bald crown. 

“ What is the matter with him 1 ” cried sympathetic Mrs. 
Bean. 

“ Him ’s balky, that ’s what ’s the matter,” replied the 
irritated parson. “ Go ’long, Bess, I tell you ! ” And he 
touched her shoulder with the whip. 

The touch was followed by a sharp cut ; but Bess only 
cringed her tail more closely, and looked wickeder than 
ever. Then he tried coaxing. All to no purpose. It was 
a dead balk. 

Notwithstanding his burning shame at having been 
shaved by a layman who “ paltered with him in a double 
sense,” and his wrath at the perverse brute, and his irrita- 
tion at Mrs. Bean, who always would call a mare a him, 
Parson Dodd controlled his temper, and begged the lady’s 
pardon, but told her she had better go into the house, for 


324 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


it might be her presence that put the devil into the brute 
(she declares that he said “devil”), then got out of the 
buggy, went to the animal’s head, stroked her, patted her, 
spoke gently to her, and led her out into the street. 

Then he once more got up into his seat. But Queen 
Bess saw through the transparent artifice ; she had taken 
serious offence at the indecision shown at starting, „ and 
now she refused to start at all without leading. So Par- 
son Dodd got out again, gave her another start with his 
hand on the bridle, then sprang back into the buggy, at 
the risk of his limbs, while she was going. “ I wonder if 
I shall have to start in this way when I leave Melissa’s 1 ” 
thought he, and wondered what people would say to see 
him with a balky horse 1 

He let her go her own gait for a mile or two, then, by 
way of experiment, stopped her, and started her again. 
She seemed to have got over her miff by this time, for she 
went off* readily at a word. Having repeated this experi- 
ment two or three times with encouraging success, (as if 
the cunning creature did n’t know perfectly well what he 
was up to !) Parson Dodd began to think he had n’t made 
such a fatally bad bargain after all. “ With careful man- 
agement, I can cure her of that trick,” thought he. 

When he had made about ten miles of the journey, he 
came to a stream where it was his custom always to “ stop 
and water ” when going over to preach for Selwyn. There 
was then an easy trot of four miles beyond, which he thought 
well for a horse after drinking ; and, besides, he considered 
a little soaking good for his wheels in dry weather. 

Parson Dodd got out, let down the mare’s check-rein, 
got into the buggy again, and, turning aside from the 
bridge, drove down into the water, purposing to drive 
through it and up the opposite bank, country fashion. 

In mid-channel, he let Queen Bess stop and drink. She 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


325 


seemed pretty thirsty, and the cautious parson, to keep her 
from drinking too fast and too much, found it necessary to 
pull her head up now and then. This, I suppose, vexed 
her ; for she was a testy creature, and could not bear to 
be trifled with. At last she would not put down her head, 
and, when requested to start, she would not start. In 
short, Queen Bess had balked again, this time in the mid- 
dle of the stream. 

Parson Dodd’s lips tightened across his teeth, and his 
knuckles grew white about his whip-handle. But the crin- 
ging tail and the leering eye told him that he might spare his 
blows. Madam had fully made up her mind not to budge. 

The parson stood up and reconnoitred. The stream was 
thigh-deep, and it was a couple of rods to either shore. 
The bridge was just out of jumping distance. There was 
no help within call. Parson Dodd looked at the water, 
then at his neatly fitting polished boots, ruffled shirt-bosom, 
and blue-black suit, grinned, and sat down again. 

“ Queen Bess,” said he, “ you think you ’ve got me now. 
It does look so. How long do you intend to keep me here 1 
Take your own time, madam ! But mind, you make up 
for this delay when you do start.” 

It was difficult, however, for a person of even so equita- 
ble a temper as his own to possess his soul in patience very 
long under the circumstances. Suppose Queen Bess should 
conclude not to start at all that forenoon ] What would 
Melissa think 1 And who would preach for Selwyn 1 

There was another consideration. Queen Bess had had 
her fill of cold water when she was warm, — a dangerous 
thing for a horse that has been driven, and that is not kept 
in exercise afterward. Before many minutes, Dodd had no 
doubt she would be fatally foundered ; though he did not 
know but the cold water about her feet might do some' 
thing toward keeping the fever from settling in them- 


326 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


“ This, then, is the creatur’ that ’s usually poorest at 
starting ! I should say so ! ” thought he. - “ I wish Colonel 
Jakes was lashed to her back, like another Mazeppa, and 
that I had the starting of her then ; I ’d be willing to 
sacrifice the mare. Come, come, Bess ! good Queen Bess ! 
Will you go ’long 1 ” 

She would not, of course. 

Parson Dodd looked wistfully at both banks again, and 
at the inaccessible bridge, and at the hub-deep water, and 
said, grimly, after a moment’s profound meditation, — 
“ There ’s only one way ; I must get out and lead her ! ” 

It is said that the brains of drowning men are lighted 
at the supreme moment by a thousand vivid reflections. 
Parson Dodd experienced something of this phenomenon, 
even before he got into the water. He saw himself preach- 
ing for Selwyn in unpresentable, drenched garments, — he, 
the well-dressed, immaculate bachelor parson; or beg- 
ging a change of the widow, and exciting great scandal in 
the congregation by entering the pulpit in a well-known 
suit of Garcey’s, (“’T will be said I might at least have let 
his clothes alone until after I had married into them ! ”) 
or waiting to be found where he was, at the mercy of a 
vicious mare, by the first church-going teams that came 
that way. Would he ever take pride in driving a neat 
nag, or care to preach for Selwyn, after either of these con- 
tingencies 1 

“ I ’ll pull off my boots anyway ; yes, and my coat ; 
there ’s no use of wetting that.” He stood up on his 
buggy-seat and looked anxiously both up and down the 
road, and, seeing no one, said, “ I may as well save my 
pantaloons.” Then why not his linen and underclothes'! 
“ The bath won’t hurt me. Why did n’t I think of this 
before 1 ” said he, pulling up the buggy-top for a screen. 

He began with his embroidered white neckcloth, which 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


327 


he took off and placed in his hat, along with his watch, 
and pocket-book, and sermon, saying, at the same time, 
“ Some leisure day, Queen Bess, you and I are going to 
have a settlement. Lucky for you this is n’t a very favor- 
able time for it. I ’ll break your temper, or I ’ll break 
your neck ! ” 

Thus talking to the shrew, and quoting exemplary 
Petruchio, he packed his clothes carefully in the wagon- 
bottom, and then — laughing at the ludicrousness of the 
situation, in spite of himself — stepped cautiously down 
into the water. 

“ Aha ! ” said he, at the first chill : “ I must give my 
head a plunge, or the blood will rush into it.” So he took 
off his wig and laid it in his hat. Then he ducked him- 
self once or twice. Then he waded to the mare’s head, 
took her gently by the bridle and led her out. 

In going up the oozy bank from the water’s edge, the 
animal’s plashing hoofs bespattered him with mud from 
head to foot. He therefore left her on the roadside, and, 
taking his handkerchief, ran back to wash and dry himself 
a little before putting on his clothes. 

He had cleansed himself of the mud, and was standing 
on a log beside the bridge, making industrious use of his 
handkerchief, when he thought he heard a wagon. Fear- 
ing to be caught in that most unclerical condition, without 
even his wig, he looked up hastily over the bridge. There 
was no wagon coming, but there was one going. It was 
his own. Queen Bess was deliberately walking away ; for 
there was a nice sense of justice in that mare, and having 
refused to start when he wanted her to, it was meet that 
she should balance that fault by starting when he did not 
want her to. Poor Dodd had not thought of that. 

Taken quite by surprise, and appalled by the horrible 
possibility that presented itself to his mind, he immedi- 


328 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


ately started in pursuit. Bess had been either too obsti- 
nate or too mad to be frightened at the apparition of him 
in the water, deeming it perhaps a device to make her “go 
’long.” But now a glimpse of the unfamiliar white object 
flashing after her was enough, and away she went. 

“ Now do thy speedy utmost,” Dodd ! Remember that 
your clothes are in the buggy; and think not of the stones 
that bruise your feet. . Ah ! what a race ! But it is un- 
equal, and it is brief. The rascally jockey said too truly, 
“ There ’s lots of travel in that beast, Parson ! ” The 
faster Dodd runs, the more frightened is she; and since 
he failed at the first dash to grasp the flying vehicle, there 
is no hope for him. He has lost his breath utterly before 
she has fairly begun to run. He sees that he may as well 
stop, and he stops. Broken-winded, asthmatic, gasping, 
despairing, he stands, a statue of distress (or very much 
like a statue, indeed), on the roadside, and watches horse 
and buggy disappearing in the distance. Was ever re- 
spectable, middle-aged, slightly corpulent, slightly bald 
country parson in just such a predicament 1 

Melissa would certainly look in vain for his coming, that 
sweet Sunday morning. And who — who would preach for 
Selwyn ] 


hi. 

PARSON DODD’S SUNDAY-MORNING CALL. 

The mere loss of horse and buggy was nothing. But 0, 
his clothes ! Parson Dodd even hoped to see the vehicle 
upset or smashed, and his garments, or at least some por- 
tion of them, flung out on the roadside. But nothing of 
the kind occurred, as far as he could see. Of all his fine 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


329 


wardrobe, he had only a handkerchief, — and what is a 
handkerchief on such an occasion ] 

Talk of a drowning man’s fancies ! No thrice-drowned 
wretch ever suffered anything comparable to Parson 
Dodd’s wild, swift-flashing thoughts, during the brief 
moments he stood there. He imagined the assembling of 
the congregation ; the waiting and wondering ; the arrival 
perhaps of his punctual clothes and sermon, for they had 
gone straight forward on the road to the parish ; then the 
alarm, and the whole country roused to search for him. 

But there was one subject demanding his immediate at- 
tention, — something must be done ; and what 1 He 
could go to the nearest house and ask for clothes, if he 
had any clothes to go in ! He was reminded of the theo- 
logical paradox, restated in the very sermon he was to 
have preached that morning, namely, that, in order to 
pray for grace, we must have grace to pray. He had wished 
for a good, practical illustration of his view of that diffi- 
culty, and now he had it. Impossible, without clothes, to 
ask for clothes ! Such whimsical fancies will sometimes 
flit lightly across the mind, even in moments of great dis- 
tress. 

It occurred to him that he might lie in the neighbor- 
ing woods all day, and then set out for home, ten miles 
off, under cover of the night. But the hardships of such 
a course, — twelve hours of nakedness, weariness, fam- 
ine, — were too appalling. No ; something desperate 
must be done. “ I must make a raid for covering of some 
kind ! ” thought the unhappy parson. 

There was a little low, red-painted dwelling-house in 
sight, standing well back from the road, with a broad wood- 
shed behind it, and a brown barn behind that. It was 
flanked by a field of waving rye, — a providential circum- 
stance, the good man thought ; it would serve to cover his 


330 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


approach. “ I can stand in the rye up to my neck, while 
I call for help, and explain my situation.” So he advanced, 
wading through the high, nodding grain, which his hands 
parted before him : a wretched being, but hopeful ; and 
with light fancies still bubbling on the current of his darker 
reflections. 

“ Gin a body meet a body coming through the rye,” 
thought he. 

A Sunday-morning stillness pervaded farm and dwelling. 
A quail whistled on the edge of the field, “ More wet ! 
more wet ! ” which sounded to Parson Dodd much like a 
mocking allusion to his own recent passage of the river. 
Glossy swallows were twittering about the eaves of the barn ; 
and enviable doves, happy in their feathers, were cooing 
on the sunny side of the old shed-roof. 

In the midst of this scene of perfect rural tranquillity, 
the barn door was opened. The parson’s heart beat fast ; 
somebody was leading out a horse. It was a woman ! 

A woman with a masculine straw hat on her head. She 
was followed by another woman, also in a straw hat, 
bringing a horse-collar. Then came a third woman, simi- 
larly covered, carrying a harness. The horse’s halter and 
afterward his head were passed through the collar, which 
was then turned over on his neck and pressed back against 
his breast ; the harness was put on and buckled ; and then, 
— horrible to tell ! — a fourth straw-hatted woman ap- 
peared, and held up the shafts of an old one-horse "wagon, 
while the other three backed the animal into them, and 
hooked the traces. 

“ My luck ! ” said the parson, through teeth chattering 
with excitement, if not with cold. “Not a man on the 
place ! All women ! And there ’s another somewhere. 
Why did n’t I think 1 It ’s the house of the Five Sis- 
ters ! ” 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


331 


The five Misses Wiretop, spinsters, known to all the 
country round about. They were rather strong-minded, 
and very strong-bodied ; they kept this house, and wore 
straw hats, and tilled their few ancestral acres, and dis- 
pensed with man’s assistance (except occasional aid in 
seed-time and harvest), and went regularly to church, and 
were very respectable. 

“ They are getting ready for church now,” thought Parson 
Dodd. “ They go to Selwyn’s. I always see them there. 
They are going to hear me preach ! ” 

No doubt they would have been glad to do anything for 
him that lay in their power; for though they did not 
think much of men generally, they had a regard for par- 
sons, and for Parson Dodd in particular ; he knew that 
from the serious, reverential glances turned up at him ever 
from the Five Sisters’ pew. “ Yet it is n’t myself they 
care for,” thought he, “ it’s my cloth.” And here he was 
without his cloth ! 

He asked himself, moreover, what they could do for him, 
even if he should make his wants known to them. Of 
course there were no male garments in their house ; and 
the most he could expect of them was an old lady’s gown. 
He fancied himself in that ! 

He reasoned, however, that these sisters and their horse 
might help him to recover his garments and his mare. 
So he advanced still nearer, and was about calling out to 
them over the top of the grain, when the Sabbath still- 
ness was broken by a sharp voice, — 

“ Stop, you sir ! Stop, there ! ” 

He did stop, as if he had been shot at. Turning his 
eyes in the direction of the voice, he saw the fifth sister, 
with one sleeve of her Sunday gown on, and with one 
naked arm, leaning her head out of a chamber window, 
and gesticulating violently. 


332 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


“ Git out o’ that rye ! git out o’ that rye ! right straight 
out ! Do you hear, you sir ? Do you hear ? ” 

Parson Dodd must have been deaf not to have heard. 
But how could he obey'} Instead of getting out of the 
rye, he crouched down in it until only the shining top of his 
bald crown was visible, like a saucer turned up in the sun. 
“ Madam ! ” he shouted back, “ I beg of you — ” 

But the sharp voice interrupted him : “ Don’t you know 
no better 1 Can’t a poor woman raise her little patch of 
rye, but some creatur’ must come tramp, tramp through 
it ? Don’t you know what a path is for 1 There ’s the 
lane ; why did n’t you come up the lane ? ” 

Poor Dodd would have been only too glad to explain 
why. But now rose a clamor of female voices, as the four 
sisters at the barn ran down to the end of the house, be- 
tween it and the field, to learn what was the matter. 

“ In the rye ! ” said the sister at the window, pointing. 
“ Some creatur’ try in’ to hide, — don’t ye see him ? Looks 
like a man. What ye want? Why don’t ye come out? 
Scroochin’ down there ! Who be ye, anyhow ? ” 

“ Ladies,” said poor Dodd, putting up his chin timidly, 
and looking over the grain with a very piteous expression, 
“ don’t you know me ? ” 

But that was a very absurd question. Certainly they 
did not know him without his wig. Where were those 
wavy brown locks, which looked so interesting in the 
preacher’s desk, especially to the female portion of his con- 
gregation? Could any one be expected to recognize in 
that shorn and polished pate the noble head and front of 
the bachelor parson ? No, he must proclaim himself. 

“ Ladies ! good friends ! don’t be alarmed, I entreat. I 
have met with a — ” 

He was going to say misfortune. But just then he met 
with something else, which interrupted him. 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


333 


The Five Sisters kept, as a protection to their loneliness, 
a very large dog. One of them, learning that there was a 
creatur ’ in the rye, had, before learning what that creatur' 
was, whistled for Bruce. Bruce had come. He perceived 
a rustling, or caught a gleam of the inverted saucer, and 
made a dash at the field, leaping upon the dilapidated boun- 
dary-wall. His deafening yelps from that moment drowned 
every other sound. He could n’t be called off even by her 
who had set him on. Terror at the sight of a naked man 
(few sights are more terrifying to an unsophisticated dog) 
rendered him wholly wild and unmanageable. There he 
stood on the wall, formidable, bristling with rage and 
fright, and intercepting every word of the poor, gasping 
wretch in the grain with his furious barking. 

I am very sorry to say that Dodd was about as badly 
frightened as the dog. He crouched, shrank away, and 
finally retreated, the brute howling and yelping after 
him, and the exasperated spinsters screaming to him to 
take the path, and not trample down the rye, — did n’t he 
know what a path was fori 

So ended Parson Dodd’s Sunday-morning call on the 
Five Sisters. 


IY. 

MR. HILLBRIGHT SETS OFF ON HIS MISSION. 

When Mr. Hillbright sent our friend Jervey for the 
mythical soap, it is by no means certain that he contem- 
plated escaping from the Asylum. I think, if we could 
hear Hillbright’s part of the story, it would be something 
like this : — 

He had detected the turning of the key in the boat-house 


334 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


locker, and, hastening to it the moment Jervey was gone, 
had found that his clothes were locked up. What was that 
for] To prevent him from putting them on, of course, 
and walking off in his keeper’s absence. 

“ They fear I will walk off, do they ] Then I will walk 
off!” 

Such, very probably, was his brief train of reasoning ; 
and such, very certainly, the conclusion arrived at. Should 
the trifling want of a few rags of clothing stand in the way 
of a great resolution ] Should he who bore the sins of the 
world, and whose duty it was to go forth and preach and 
convert the world, neglect such an opening as this to get 
out and fulfil his mission ] 

“ Providence will clothe me ! ” And, indeed, it looked 
as if Providence meant to do something of the kind. u Be- 
hold ! ” There was a long piece of carpet, very ancient 
and faded, in the bottom of the boat; he pulled it up, 
wrapped it fantastically about him, and was clad. 

He then pushed the boat out into the river, giving it an 
impulse which sent it across to the opposite shore. Then 
he leaped out, leaving it adrift on the current. When Mr. 
Jervey found it below the bend, Mr. Hillbright was already 
walking, with great dignity, in his improvised blanket, 
across the skirts of a neighboring woodland, like a sachem 
in his native wilds. 

He had not gone far before he began to experience great 
tenderness in the soles of his feet. Then by degrees it 
dawned upon him that the loose ends of the carpet flapping 
about his calves were but a poor substitute for trousers ; 
and that his attire was, on the whole, imperfect. “ Too 
simple for the age,” thought he. Picturesque, but hardly 
the thing in which to appear and proclaim his mission to 
a fastidious modern society. Would the world, that re- 
fused to tolerate him dressed as a gentleman, accept him 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


335 


now that he was rigged out more like a king of the Canni- 
bal Islands 1 

He tried various methods of wreathing the folds of an- 
tique tapestry about his person ; all of which seemed open 
to criticism. He was beginning to think Providence might 
have done better by him, when, getting over a fence, he 
found himself on the public highway. 

He knew he would be followed by his friends at the 
Asylum ; and here he accordingly stopped to take an ob- 
servation. He was near the summit of a long hill. At the 
foot of it, near half a mile off, he saw a horse coming at a 
fast gallop, which to his suspicious mind suggested pursuit, 
and he shrank back into some bushes to remain concealed 
while it passed. 

As the animal ascended the slope, the gallop relaxed to 
a leisurely canter, the canter declined to a trot, and, long 
before the summit was attained, the trot had become a 
walk. The horse had no rider, but there was a buggy at 
its heels. Arrived near the spot where Hillbright was hid, 
it turned up on the roadside, and put down its head to nip 
grass. Then Hillbright saw that there was nobody in the 
buggy. The horse was a runaway, that had been stopped 
by the long stretch of rising ground. The horse, I may 
as well add, was a bay mare. 

“ Providence is all right,” said Hillbright, emerging from 
the bushes. “ This is for my sore feet.” 

At sight of the strange figure, grotesque in faded scroll 
patterns of flowing tapestry, the mare shied, and would 
have got away, but a two-mile course, with a hill at the 
end of it, had tamed her spirit. So she merely sprang to 
a corner of the fence, and remained an easy capture. 

As Hillbright was about setting foot into the vehicle, — 
for he had no doubt of its having been sent expressly that 
he might ride, — he found an odd heap of things in his 


336 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


way. There was something that looked like suspenders ; 
and, following up that interesting clew, he drew forth a 
pair of pantaloons ; with them came a coat and waistcoat, 
all of handsome blue-black cloth. “ Providence means that 
I shall be well clothed,” was his happy reflection, as, ex- 
ploring still further, he discovered boots and underclothes, 
and a shirt of fine linen, with a wonderfully refulgent ruffled 
bosom. With a triumphant smile, he proceeded to put 
the things on, and found them an excellent fit. 

There was still a hat left, freighted and ballasted with 
various valuables, uppermost among which was a luxuriant 
chestnut-brown wig. Now, Hillbright had never worn a 
wig. But since he had borne the sins of the world, the 
top of his head had become bare, and was not here a plain 
indication that it ought to be covered 1 He accepted the 
augury, and put on the wig. 

Next came a richly embroidered white neckerchief, for 
which he also found its appropriate use. Then in the 
bottom of the hat remained a gold watch, which he cheer- 
fully put into his fob ; a plump porte-monnaie which he 
pocketed with a smile ; and a thin package of manuscripts 
betwixt dainty morocco covers, which, untying its neat 
pink ribbons, he proceeded to examine. 

The miracle was complete. The package was a ser- 
mon. 

“ This is all direct from Heaven ! ” said Hillbright, de- 
lighted, and having no more doubt of the truth of his 
surmise than if he had seen the buggy and its contents let 
down in a golden cloud from the sky. 

Thinking to find room for the package in the broad 
breast-pocket of his coat, he discovered an obstacle, which 
he removed. It proved to be a little oval pocket-mirror. 
He held it up before him, and had reason to be pleased 
with the flattering account it gave of himself. The grace- 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


337 


ful wig, embroidered white cravat, ruffled shirt-bosom, and 
blue-black suit became him wonderfully well ; they made 
a new man of him. Had he known Dodd of Coldwater, he 
would almost have taken himself for that well-got-up bach- 
elor parson. 

Then for the hat, which was a stylish black beaver, 
somewhat the worse for its ride ; giving it a little needful 
polishing before putting it on, he noticed a letter protrud- 
ing from the lining. He opened it and read : — 

“ Reverend and dear Sir : — We have made all the arrange- 
ments. The Ex. is all right. You preach for Selwyn at 
Longtrot , on Sunday , the 1th. “ B. B. v 

This seemed plain enough to the gratified Hillbright. 
“We” he understood to mean his unseen friendly guar- 
dians. The “ arrangements ” they had made were, so far 
as he could see, excellent; he was provided with every- 
thing ! The “ Ex.” undoubtedly alluded to his exit from 
the Asylum ; and that was certainly “ all right.” To-day 
was Sunday, the 7th ; and here was his work all laid 
out for him. Who Selwyn was, and where Longtrot was, 
he did not know ; but doubtless it would be revealed. 

The signature of the missive puzzled him at first ; but 
soon a happy interpretation occurred to him. It was 
evidently no signature at all, but an injunction. “ B. B.” 
stood for “ Be ! Be ! ” and it signified, “ Be a man ! Be 
A GREAT MAN ! Be THYSELF ! BE HILLBRIGHT ! ” 

Yet when he came to scrutinize the address of the letter, 
he perceived that the name of Hillbright, against which 
the world had conceived an unreasonable prejudice, was to 
be dropped for a season. “ It appears,” said he, “ I am to 
be known as Dodd, — E. Dodd, — Rev. E. Dodd. I don’t 
see what the E, stands for, I wonder what my first 
name is 1 ” 


13 


v 


338 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


So saying, he stepped into the buggy, gathered up the 
reins from the dasher, put under his feet the carpet that 
was lately on his back, and set off grandly on his grand 
mission. 

The bay mare was herself again ; she did not balk. 


V. 


JAKES IN PURSUIT. 

Among the officers sent out in pursuit of the fugitive 
from the Asylum was the superintendent of the Asylum 
farm, a stout, red-faced man, named Jakes, — a brother, 
by the way, of our friend Colonel Jakes of Cold water. 
He took with him an Irish laborer named Collins, also a 
strong rope with which to bind, and a coarse farmer’s suit 
with which to clothe, the madman when caught. 

The superintendent and his man put a horse before a 
light carryall, and had a fine time driving about on the 
pleasant country roads, while others of the pursuing party 
scoured fields and woods on foot. At last they struck the 
Longtrot road, and turned off toward Coldwater. 

They had not driven far in that direction before they 
saw a man coming in a buggy. 

“A minister, ye may know by his white choker,” ob- 
served Collins. 

“ You ’re right, Patrick,” said Jakes, “ and I vow, I 
believe I know who he is ! I know that bay mare, 
anyhow. She ’s a brute my brother over in Coldwater got 
shaved on by a travelling jockey ; and he told me last 
week, with a grin on one side of his face, he had put her 
off on the minister. I bet my head that ’s Parson Dodd ! 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


339 


Good morning, sir ; beg pardon ! ” And Superintendent 
J akes reined up on the roadside. “ Have you seen — have 
you met — hold on, if you please, sir — a minute ! ” 

Thus appealed to, the stranger stopped his horse. 
Superintendent Jakes thought that face was somehow 
familiar, and so thought Collins. In fact, they had seen 
it more than once about the Asylum grounds, within a 
few days, as the owner of the said face knew very well. 
But since one sometimes fails to recognize old friends 
in strange circumstances, it is no wonder that these 
farmers did not identify the new patient in Dodd’s 
clothes. 

“We ’re looking for a crazy man that got away from the 
Asylum this morning,” said Jakes. “ A man about five feet 
nine or ten. Rather portly. Good-looking and gentle- 
manly when dressed ; but he ran off naked. Have you 
seen or heard of such a man 1 ” 

“ I have n’t seen anybody crazier than you or I,” said 
the supposed parson. 

This sounded so much like a joke, though uttered very 
gravely, that Jakes was tempted to speak of the bay 
mare. 

“ I think I know that beast you ’re driving. You had 
her of Colonel Jakes of Cold water, did n’t you ? Well, 
he ’s my brother. Your name is Dodd, I believe.” 

“ I have been called Dodd. But can you tell me what 
my first name is ? It begins with E,” said the driver of 
the bay mare, with a shrewd, almost a cunning look, which 
did not strike Jakes as being very ministerial. Yet he had 
heard that Dodd was something of a joker. 

“ I never heard you called anything but Parson Dodd. 
Yes, I have too. You made a speech at the convention ; 
I read it in the paper. E stands for Ebenezer .” 

“ Thank you,” said the other. “ I ’m glad I ’ve found 


340 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


out. Thank you,” — smiling, and then suddenly casting 
his eyes on the ground. 

“ How do you find the mare 1 ” said Jakes, by way of 
retort. 

“ Perfect ; arrangements all perfect.” 

“ That sol No bad tricks'? Of course she ’s all right ; 
glad you find her so,” grinned Jakes. 

“ How far is it to Longtrot 1 ” asked the counterfeit Dodd. 

“ About a mile ’n’ a half — two mile — depends upon 
where in Longtrot you ’re going.” 

“ Do you know Selwyn 1 ” 

“ Minister Selwyn, preacher in the yaller meetin’-house ] 
I don’t know him, but I know of him. How does she 
start off?” 

“ You shall see.” 

The bay mare started off very well ; and the fugitive 
from the Asylum, having obtained from his pursuer rather 
more valuable information than he gave in return, disap- 
peared over the crest of the hill, on his way to the “ yaller 
meetin’-house ” in Longtrot. 

“ Wonder if she re’lly ha’n’t balked with him yet ?” said 
Superintendent Jakes, as he drove on. “I guess he ’s a 
jolly sort of parson. I ’ve seen him somewhere, sure ’s the 
world, though I can’t remember where.” 

“You have, and I was there,” said Collins; “though 
where it was, I remember no more than yourself.” 

They made inquiries for the fugitive all along the route, 
but could hear of no more extraordinary circumstance, that 
Sunday morning, than a runaway horse, seen by one or 
two families, as it passed on the road to Longtrot. 

“ It must have gone by before we turned the corner,” 
said Jakes, “ for we ’ve seen no nag but the parson’s.” 

At last they came in sight of a little red-painted house, 
standing well back from the street. “ This is the home of 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


341 


the Five Sisters, Patrick,” said Jakes. “ Guess we ’ll give 
’em a call.” 

He turned up the lane, driving between the house and 
the rye-field, and stopped in front of the wood-shed. The 
dog, still bristling from his recent excitement, gave a surly 
bark, and went growling away. At the same time, five 
vivacious female faces appeared, three in the doorway and 
two at an open window, and “ set up such cackling ” (as 
Jakes ungallantly expressed it) that he could “hardly hear 
himself think.” 

“ Is this Mr. Jakes'!” cried one. 

“ From the Asylum ? ” cried another. 

“ I told you so, sister ! I told you so ! ” cried a third. 

“ I knowed the man was — ” cried a fourth. 

“ Crazy ! ” cried the fifth, and all together. 

“ Dog Bruce chased him out of the rye — ” 

“ Sneaked off behind the fences — ” 

“ Over toward Neighbor Lapham’s — ” 

“ An’ sister Delia declares — ” 

“ Hush, hush, sister ! ” 

“ Yes, I will ! She declares she believes he had n’t a 
rag o’ clothin’ to his back ! ” 

“ Thank you,” said Jakes, having got all the information 
he wanted almost without the asking. “ He ’s my man > 
Thank ye, sisters ! Good morning.” 


YI. 

THE WIDOW GARCEY. 

At the bay-window of the pretty Gothic parsonage in 
Longtrot sat the widow of the late pastor. She was 
dressed in voluminous black, exceedingly becoming to her 


342 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


still fresh complexion and to her full style of beauty. If 
“ sighing and grief” had not produced on her precisely the 
effect of which Falstaff complained, it had not certainly 
wasted her to a shadow. No wonder if the contemplation 
of those generous proportions, of those cheeks still fair and 
round, and of the serene temper that served to keep them 
so, had persuaded Parson Dodd that there might be some- 
thing yet left for him in the future better than the lonely 
life he was living. 

There was a book in the fair hand that had embroidered 
the white neckcloth “ for her dear husband.” It was that 
absorbing poem of Pollok’s, “The Course of Time,” which 
she justly deemed not too lively for Sunday reading. Her 
serious large eyes were fixed on its pages, except when 
ever and anon they glanced restlessly over it, out of the 
window and down the pleasant, shady street, as if in ex- 
pectation of somebody quite as interesting as the poet 
Pollok. Somebody who did not make his appearance, 
driving down betwixt the overhanging elms, past the 
church-green, and up to the gate of the parsonage, as in 
fancy she saw him so plainly whenever her eyes were on 
the book. Why did they look up at all, since it was only 
to refute the pretty vision 1 

Poor Melissa sat there until she seemed living the 
Course of Time, instead of reading it. Occasionally she 
varied the direction of her glances by looking at her 
watch ; and she grew more and more troubled as she saw 
the hour slipping irrevocably by which the husband’s 
friend should have given to comforting the fatherless and 
widow that Sunday morning. 

“ What can have happened ? ” she asked herself. “ He 
must have taken offence at something ! What have I said 
or done 1 It must be the cravat ! Why did I do so fool- 
ish a thing as to send it with a note 1 ” She could have 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


343 


said what she wished to say so much better than she could 
write it ! 

The first bell rang. And now people were going to 
church. The children were teasing to start. They were 
tired of sitting still in the house. What was she waiting 
for 1 Was that old Dodd coming again to-day 1 

“ Levi ! never let me hear you call him old Dodd again ! 
Mr. Dodd is still a young man, and he has been a good 
friend to your poor mother. There ! ” she exclaimed, with 
a little start, for her eyes, wandering down the street again, 
saw the long-expected buggy coming at last. 

It was a peculiar buggy, high in the springs, and with a 
high and narrow top. She could not mistake it. She was 
equally sure of the stylish hat and wavy brown locks and 
ample shirt-frill of the driver. But in an instant the thrill 
of hope the sight inspired changed to a chill of disappoint- 
ment and dismay. Parson Dodd did not drive on to the 
parsonage, as he had always done before, when coming to 
preach for Selwyn. The buggy turned up to the meeting- 
house, and disappeared in the direction of the horse-sheds. 

She waited awhile, in deep distress of mind, to see it 
or its owner reappear ; but in vain. 

“ Levi,” she said, “ go right over to the church, and see 
if Mr. Dodd has come. Go as quick as you can, but don’t 
let anybody know I sent you.” 

It seemed to her that the boy was never so provokingly 
slow in executing an errand. 

At last she saw him returning leisurely, watching the 
orioles in the elms, while her heart was bursting with im- 
patience. She signalled him from the window, and lifted 
interrogating brows at him. Levi grinned and nodded 
vivaciously in reply. Yes, the minister had come. 

“ Are you — are you very sure ] ” she tremblingly in- 
quired, meeting him at the door. 


344 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


u A’n’t I ! ” said the lad. “ Did n’t I first go and look at 
his buggy under the shed ? He ’s got a new horse ; but I 
guess I ought to know that buggy, often as it ’s been in our 
barn. Then I peeked in through the door, and saw him 
just going up into the desk.” 

Poor Mrs. Garcey was now quite ready to go to church. 
Since Dodd would not come to her, she must go to him; 
she must see his face, and get one look from him, even if 
across the space that separated pulpit from pew. 

“ How was he looking, Levi ] ” she asked. 

“ Kind o’ queer. I always thought Dodd felt big enough, 
but I never saw him carry his head quite so high. Looked 
as if he was mad at something.” 

“ 0, I must have offended him ! ” sighed the unhappy 
Melissa, putting on her things. 

With slow and decorous steps she marshalled forth her 
little tribe from the gate of the parsonage across the green 
to the church-porch. The bell was ringing again, its brown 
back just visible in the high belfry, tumbling and rolling 
like a porpoise in the waves of its own sound. Wagons 
were arriving, and the usual throng of church-goers were 
alighting on the platform or walking up the steps. In the 
vestibule she found a group of friends inquiring seriously 
concerning each other’s health, and in suppressed voices 
talking of the latest news. There seemed to be some ex- 
citement with regard to an insane man who had that morn- 
ing escaped from the Asylum, whom nobody appeared to 
have seen, though he had been heard of by several through 
those who were out in pursuit of him. Somehow, Melissa 
took not much interest in the greetings and the gossip of 
these worthy people, and parting from them, she passed 
on into the aisle. 

“ Poor dear ! She can’t forgit him” whispered kind- 
hearted Mrs. Allgood, with a tear of sympathy gathering 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


345 


in the eye that followed the gloomily draped and pensive 
figure. 

“ Huh ! she ’s thinkin’ of another husband a’ready ! ” 
answered sharp-tongued Miss Lynx, with a toss. 

It cannot be denied that of the two, Miss Lynx had the 
clearer perception of the hard fact in the case. Yet as she 
set it forth, unclothed by grace and the warm tissues of 
human sympathy, it was no more the truth than a skeleton 
is a living body; and Mrs. Allgood’s gentler judgment 
was more just. Melissa had not forgotten that good man, 
Garcey; and if now, in her loneliness and bereavement, 
she cherished hope of other companionship, was it for 
tart Miss Lynx to condemn her h Nay, who, without 
knowledge of the human heart, and compassion for its suf- 
ferings and its needs, had even a right to judge her 1 

She passed down the aisle, preceded by her little ones 
(the elder of whom, by the way, were beginning to be not 
so very little), and followed them into the pew in which she 
had first sat when a bride. She would have been alone in 
it then, but for the two or three poor persons to whom 
she was always glad to give seats. But one after another 
a little Garcey had appeared, first in her arms, perhaps, 
then in the seat beside her, and thus, year by year, the 
family row had increased, until now it almost filled the 
cushioned slip. A mist of tender, regretful sentiment 
seemed to suffuse the very atmosphere about her as she 
listened to the tone of the bell, and thought what changes 
had come over her dream of life since she first sat there 
and looked up with pride to see the beloved, the eloquent 
— her Gareey — in the desk ! Now, here she was again, 
looking with anxious eyes and a troubled heart for an- 
other. 

There were the well-known wavy chestnut-brown locks, 
and a shoulder of the blue-black coat, just visible from the 
15 * 


346 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


side-slip in which she sat. But the wearer did not once 
deign to look at her. He held his head bowed behind the 
desk, as if in devout contemplation, and thoughts in which 
she, alas ! had no share. She longed to see him lift it, 
and turn toward her those gracious, sympathizing features, 
the very sight of which was a comfort to her heart. And 
it must be confessed she had a strong curiosity regarding 
the embroidered cravat. 

“ I must speak with him after the service,” thought she. 
“ I will make him come to the house.” And she turned 
and whispered to the topmost head of the little row. 

“ It has just occurred to me, Levi, you ’d better go and 
put his horse in our barn. It will be too bad to have the 
poor beast standing under the shed all day.” 

“ ’T won’t hurt anything ; besides, he might have drove 
over there himself, if he wanted his horse put out,” said 
Levi, with a scowl. 

“ You can get into the buggy and ride over,” said his 
mother, grown all at once wonderfully solicitous with re- 
gard to the welfare of the poor beast. 

The ride was an object, and Levi went. 

The bell stopped ringing, the choir ceased singing, the 
congregation was in its place, all hushed and expectant ; 
and still Levi did not return. His mother would have felt 
anxious about him at any other time ; but now a greater 
trouble absorbed the less. 

It was not like Parson Dodd to sit so long in that way 
with his head down. A movement of the arm, and a rustle 
of leaves heard in the stillness of the house, showed that 
he was turning over the manuscript of his sermon, or se- 
lecting hymns, or looking up chapter and verse. But all 
that should have been done before. He ought not now to 
keep the people waiting. 

The silence was broken by a cough. This was followed 


PREACHING FOR SELWTN. 


347 


by several coughs, which appeared to have been hitherto 
suppressed. Then entered four of the Five Sisters, un- 
commonly late this morning, for some reason. In spite of 
untoward circumstances, they had come to hear Mr. Dodd 
— that dear, good man — preach. And now a buzz of 
whispers began to run through the congregation ; hushed, 
however, as soon as the preacher rose. 

Melissa, watching intently, saw the noble head of luxu- 
riant chestnut-brown hair slowly lifted. Then bloomed 
the abundant shirt-ruffle over the desk, together with — 
yes, the white neckerchief embroidered by her own hand ! 
But even while she recognized it, a thrill of amazement, a 
chill of consternation, passed over her, as the wearer, 
stretching forth his hands, cried out in a loud, strange 
voice, — 

“ We will 'pray for the sins of the world ! ” 


VII. 

FARMER LAPHAM’S EXPLOIT. 

When Parson Dodd withdrew from the society of the 
Five Sisters and their dog Bruce, he descried across the 
fields a house and barn situated on another road, and 
made toward them, under the shelter of walls and fences, 
thinking that if he could take them in the rear, and enter 
the barn unperceived, he might at least secure a horse- 
blanket in which to introduce himself to the family. 

He found, however, to his dismay, that they must be 
finally approached across a range of barren pasture, un- 
sheltered even by a shrub. No friendly rye-field here ; 
and he was too far off to make known his wants by shout 


348 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


ing. He did shout two or three times from behind an old 
cow-house in which he took refuge, but timidly, and with- 
out the desired effect. What was to be done 1 

He had turned aside to visit the cow-house, in the feeble 
hope of finding there some relief to his forlorn condition. 
But it was empty even of straw. 

As he cast about him in his despair, seeking for some- 
thing wherewith to cover his farther advance, his eye fell 
upon the cow-house door. “If I only had that off its 
hinges, I might carry it before me,” thought he. He took 
hold of it and found it could be easily removed. In a 
minute he had it in his arms. “ Samson carrying off the 
gates of Gaza ! ” was the lively comparison that occurred 
to him, — but with this difference : whereas, in familiar 
Bible pictures, the strong man was represented as bearing 
his burden on his back, this modern Samson poised his 
upon his portly bosom. “ Circumstances alter cases,” 
thought he. 

With arms stretched across it, grasping its edges with 
his hands, and just lifting it from the ground (it was not 
very heavy), he moved forward with it cautiously, — much 
like a Roman soldier under cover of his immense scutum , 
or door-shaped shield, occasionally setting it down to rest 
(being careful at such times to take his toes from under 
it), or reconnoitring his ground from behind it ; but always 
keeping it skilfully betwixt his person and the enemy’s 
walls. 

Now, one can easily picture the amazement of the wor- 
thy Lapham family, when its younger members reported a 
wonderful phenomenon in the cow-pasture, that calm Sun- 
day morning ; and mother and children running to look, 
behold ! there was the cow-house door advancing in this 
extraordinary manner to pay them a visit ; staggering 
slightly, and balancing itself occasionally on its lower cor- 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


349 


ners, like a door that had as yet learned but imperfectly 
the art of walking ! Close scrutiny might perhaps have 
revealed to them the human fingers clasping the edges of 
it ; or the feet of flesh and blood taking short steps under 
it ; or the glistening crown of the bearer peeping furtively 
from behind. But when the vulgar mind is greatly aston- 
ished, it is prone to see only that which most astonishes ; 
and, accordingly, good Mrs. Lapham and the little Lap- 
hams, failing to discriminate in such trifling matters as 
hands and feet, saw only the gross phenomenon of the 
perambulating door. It was like Birnam Wood coming to 
Dunsinane. 

What gave a sort of dramatic effect to the apparition 
was the grotesque outline of a human figure, large as life, 
which the boys had chalked on the outside of the door, for 
a target. As soon as they saw this advance, grinning at 
them, they were greatly excited; and one ran for the 
gun. 

“ Keep back, mother ! ” said he ; “ I ’ll give the old 
thing a shot, if ’t is Sunday ! ” 

“ Stop ! You sha’ n’t, Jason ! Martin, run for your 
father ! Run ! ” 

Mr. Lapham had been talking with a stranger at the 
gate, who had just driven up when the children ran out to 
proclaim the wonder. 

“ Nonsense, children ! ” said he. “ A door don’t move 
across the country without somebody to help it ; you ought 
to know that, mother. Wal ! there ! ” he exclaimed, wit- 
nessing the miracle from the kitchen window. “ It is on 
its travels, sure enough ! Jason, run and see if you can 
catch that man I was talking with. Holler ! scream ! Be 
quick ! ” 

" Who is he, father ? ” asked mother. 

“ A man from the Asylum — says one of their crazy folks 


350 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


got away this morning. Run off without his clothes. He ’s 
behind that door, I ’ll bet a dollar ! ” 

This seemed a very plausible explanation of the mys- 
tery ; but it did not serve to tranquillize the mother and 
children. Was not a live madman as much to be dreaded 
as a walking door 'l 

“ Don’t be frightened. Just shet the house and keep 
dark. I ’ll head him olf. Give me the gun, I may want 
it.” And arming himself, out the farmer sallied. 

Parson Dodd had by this time perceived that his ap- 
proach was creating a sensation. For want of a pocket, 
he had tied his handkerchief to his wrist. He now flut- 
tered that white flag over a corner of the door for a signal ; 
then, with his hand behind his mouth for a trumpet, sum- 
moned a parley. Looking to see some friendly recognition 
of his flag of truce, great was his consternation at behold- 
ing so warlike a demonstration as a man running to the 
ambush of some quince-bushes with a gun. In vain he 
fluttered his white flag, and called for help. 

“ I a’ n’t goin’ to fall into no trap sot by a crazy pate ! ” 
thought shrewd Farmer Lapham, as he concealed himself. 

Poor Dodd was in a terrible situation. He could not 
advance without the risk of receiving a bullet ; neither 
could he lay the door down, unless, indeed, he first laid 
himself down, and then drew it over him for a blanket. 
He might retreat, but that movement, too, presented diffi- 
culties. So there he stood, holding up the target, beckon- 
ing and shouting himself hoarse to no purpose. 

And now the musical clamor of church bells rose on the 
tranquil morning air. “ The wedding-guest here beat his 
breast , for he heard the loud bassoon ! ” thought he ; for still 
he could not keep odd fancies out of his brain. Yet how 
far off those bells sounded ! — not in distance only ; they 
seemed to be in a world of which he had once dreamed. 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


351 


He thought of the sermon he was to have preached that 
day as something he might have written in a previous 
state of existence, something quite foreign to the dread 
realities of life. 

“ I can’t stand here holding up a door forever! ” thought 
he at last. And he determined to move on, in spite of 
bullets. So he took up the door, and resumed his march. 

Observing the point he was aiming at, Lapham thought 
it wise to get into the barn before him, and station himself 
where he could keep guard over his property, watch the 
supposed madman, and fire a defensive shot if neces- 
sary. 

Dodd, bearing up the door, did not perceive this flank 
movement ; but advancing to within a few yards of the 
barn, he was astonished at hearing a voice thunder forth 
from a window, “ Stop, or I ’ll shoot ! ” 

Dodd stopped and peeped forth from behind his portable 
screen, showing a bald crown which was very much against 
him. 

“His keeper said he was bald on top of his head,” the 
farmer reasoned. And he called out, “What do you 
want 1 ” 

“ Rest and a guide and food and fire ,” was running in 
Dodd’s mind; but he answered in plain prose, and very 
emphatically, “I want clothes.” 

This was another corroborating circumstance, and a very 
strong one. 

“ How came you here without clothes 1 ” 

“ I lost them by a singular accident. I am a clergyman, 
on my way to preach.” 

This was conclusive. “ The very chap ! His keeper said 
he imagined himself a preacher,” thought the farmer. 
“ Wonder if I can’t manage to trap him ! ” And he cast 
about him for the means. 


352 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


“ I ’ll explain everything ; only give me something to 
cover myself, and don’t keep me standing here ! ” said Par- 
son Dodd, growing impatient. 

By this time Lapham had formed his plan. “ Do just 
as I tell ye now, and you shall have clothes. Come into 
the barn, turn to the right, and you ’ll find a harness-room, 
and in it you ’ll find a frock and overalls. Do you hear 1 ” 

Dodd heard, and the prospect of even so poor a cover- 
ing thrilled his heart with gratitude. He came on with 
his door, left it leaning against the barn, and entered. 

He found the harness-room as described, and seized 
eagerly upon the frock and overalls. But just as he was 
putting them on the door of the room flew together with a 
bang; the crafty farmer, who had hidden behind it, sprang 
and turned the key, and the “ madman ” was locked in. 

Having accomplished this daring feat, Farmer Lapham, 
deaf to the cries of his victim, ran out excitedly to call for 
help, just as Patrick Collins was taking down a pair of 
bars on the other side of the pasture for Superintendent 
Jakes to drive through. Their errand was soon made 
known. 

“ I ’ve ketched the feller for ye ! ” cried the -elated 
farmer. And he led Jakes to the dungeon within which 
the entrapped parson was calling lustily. 

“ Unlock the door ; don’t be afraid, man ! ” said Jakes. 

Lapham opened it and stepped cautiously back while 
the superintendent entered, followed by Collins with a 
rope and a bundle of clothes. 

Within stood the captive, a comical figure, in loose blue 
frock and overalls, barefoot and wigless, and with a coun- 
tenance in which indignation at the farmer, joy at the 
prospect of deliverance, and a consciousness of his own 
ludicrous situation, were mingled in an expression which 
was very droll indeed. 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


353 


“ How are you? ” said Jakes in an offhand way. “We 
have brought your clothes ; would you like to put ’em on ? ” 

“ I would ; and I am infinitely obliged to you, my good 
friends ! ” said poor Dodd, thinking the worst of his 
troubles now over. “ How did you find — But what — 
These — these are not my clothes ! ” 

“ A’n’t they ? ” said Jakes. “ You ’d better put ’em on, 
though. They ’ll do till you get back to the doctor’s.” 

“ To the doctor’s ? What do you mean ? I am a clergy- 
man. I was on my way to preach — ” 

“Yes, we understand all about that. Come, on with 
the clothes. We don’t expect you ’ll give us any trouble, 
Mr. Hillbright.” 

“ Hillbright ! I am Dodd, — Dodd of Cold water, — a 
minister ! ” 

“ There are two of you, then ! ” said Jakes, laughing 
incredulously. “We just met one Parson Dodd, in his 
buggy, driving the bay mare he had of my brother, going 
over to preach at Longtrot. He ’s there by this time.” 

“Dodd — Longtrot — the bay mare!” gasped out the 
astonished parson. “ Impossible ! ” 

“ Come, no nonsense, Mr. Hillbright ! Colonel Jakes, 
of Coldwater, is my brother, and I know the mare perfectly 
well, — the balky brute ! ” 

“There is some mistake here, Mr. Jakes, — if that is 
your name. I knew the Colonel had a brother at the In- 
sane Asylum, and I suspect you are he.” 

“ Yes, and you ’ve seen me there often enough, I sup- 
pose. Now, no more fooling. I don’t want to use force, 
if it can be avoided ; but you must go with us, — that ’s all 
there is about it. Collins, pass along that rope.” 

“ Never mind the rope,” said Dodd. “ Just hear my 
explanation, and you ’ll save yourself and me some trouble. 
That mare balked with me in the middle of the river, and 


354 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


to lead her out I had to take off my clothes and put them 
in the wagon, and she ran away with them.” 

“ A very ingenious story,” said Jakes ; “ but you 
would n’t have thought on’t if I had n’t just said she was 
a balky brute. Come, this won’t do. Mr. Hillbright, or 
Mr. Dodd, or whatever your name, you must go with us ; 
and you can take your choice, whether to go peaceably or 
be tied with this rope. We ’re much obliged to you, Mr. 
Lapham.” 

Seeing resistance to be vain, Parson Dodd stepped into 
the wagon, stared at by the whole family of Laphams, who 
had come, out to get a view of the madman, and was car- 
ried off triumphantly by Jakes and Collins. 


VIII. 

DENOUEMENT. 

Animated by the prospect of a ride, young Levi Garcey 
backed the minister’s buggy out from under the shed, got 
up into it, took the reins, and was having his simple re- 
ward, when, as he was crossing the street, a slight misun- 
derstanding occurred between him and the bay mare. She 
wanted to return homeward, never yet having enjoyed the 
hospitalities of the Garcey stable. Not being permitted 
to follow her own sweet will, she refused to move at all, — 
balked, in short. And this was the reason why Levi did 
not go back into church. 

There he was in the middle of the street, when a man 
in a chaise drove up. He was the same who had stopped 
at Farmer Lapham’s gate, and whom Jason Lapham had 
failed to overtake. To be more explicit, it was Jervey. 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


355 


Stopping to help the boy out of his trouble, or to make 
inquiries concerning Hillbright, he remarked in the bottom 
of the buggy something that had a familiar look. He 
pulled it up, and recognized the strip of carpet belonging 
to the doctor’s boat. 

“ How came this thing here ? ” 

“ 1 d’n’ know. I found it in the buggy.” 

“ Whose buggy is it 1 ” 

“ The minister’s, — Mr. Dodd’s.” 

“ Where is he 1 ” 

“ In the meetin’ -house, where I ought to be,” said Levi. 

“Just look out for my horse a minute,” said Jervey. 
And he started for the church door, rightly regarding the 
carpet as a clew which might lead to something. 

What it did lead to was the most astonishing thing that 
ever happened in all his remarkable experience. He had 
thought that, if he could get a word with the minister, he 
might perhaps hear from Hillbright, and lo ! the minister 
was Hillbright himself ! He did not recognize him at first 
in that wonderful costume, which seemed little short of 
miraculous ; and he could scarcely credit his senses when 
the madman’s phraseology and tones of voice (he was still 
praying at a furious rate for the sins of the world) be- 
trayed his identity. 

The prayer was an incoherent outpouring of mingled 
sense and nonsense; and the congregation was beginning 
to show marked signs of uneasiness and excitement un- 
der it. 

“ What ’s up 1 ” whispered Jervey to the sexton. 

“ I don’t know,” replied the sexton. “We expected Dodd 
of Coldwater to preach to-day. But he seems to have sent 
an odd genius in his place, — in his clothes, too.” 

“ Can we get into the pulpit without going through the 
aisle 'l ” Jervey quietly asked. 


356 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


“ Yes, I can show you. What under the sun is the mat- 
ter 1” 

“ Your odd genius is a madman, that escaped this morn- 
ing, naked, from the Asylum.” 

“ * T a’n’t possible ! He came in Dodd’s buggy ! ” 

“ Then I am afraid some mischief has happened to Dodd.” 

“ A madman ! — naked ! He must have murdered Dodd 
for his clothes ! ” 

“ Keep quiet. Don’t alarm the people ; but just call out 
two or three of your prominent men.” 

I know not how many in the congregation had by this 
time learned the real character of the man who appeared be- 
fore them so strangely in Dodd’s place and in Dodd’s attire. 
It had taken some a good while to find out that it was not 
Dodd himself. But there was one who at the first moment 
saw the astounding change and feared the worst. 

This was Melissa. She remembered the gossip in the 
vestibule concerning the escaped madman, and, connecting 
that with the arrival of Dodd’s buggy and characteristic 
apparel, what else could she infer than that he had been 
waylaid and robbed, and perhaps killed? The fanatical 
extravagance of the prayer corroborated her suspicions. 
She glanced around and saw the grave deacons looking 
restless and disturbed. Then came a stranger to the door, 
and whispered to the. sexton, who whispered to Deacon 
Sturgis and Deacon Adams and Dr. Cole, who got up and 
went out. 

Next came a singular movement in the pulpit. It was 
at the close of the prayer, when the usurper of Dodd’s 
raiment unclosed his eyes, and, looking about him, saw two 
or three men m the shadow of the pulpit stairs. He 
stooped to speak w T ith them ; there was a sound of quick, 
low voices; then the spurious Dodd had disappeared; and 
lo ! there was good Deacon Sturgis standing in front of 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


357 


the pulpit. The whole congregation was by this time in 
a rustle of commotion. 

“ I hope the friends won’t be disturbed at all,” said he. 
“ A mistake of some little importance has occurred ; but 
everything will come out right, we trust. Meanwhile the 
services will go on.” 

Here the deacon read, with great deliberation, the 
longest hymn he could select. “ Congregation will please 
jine with the choir in singin’,” he said ; and set the exam- 
ple, in a loud, nasal voice. 

The singing ended, he read a passage of Scripture ; then 
called on one of the brethren noted for having a gift that 
way to offer up a prayer. The prayer too was a long one. 
Then Deacon Sturgis read another hymn ; during the sing- 
ing of which Deacon Adams came in and whispered a word 
in his ear. 

The second hymn ended, Melissa was watching in great 
distress of mind to see what the deacons would do, when 
she noticed all eyes turned again toward the pulpit. 
Turning hers in the same direction, she barely suppressed 
a scream; for there, behind the desk, appeared once more 
the well-known wig, effulgent shirt-ruffle, and blue-black 
suit. But it was no longer the spurious Dodd that was 
there. It was Parson Dodd himself! 

Riding away with his captors in the carryall, Dodd had 
rendered so straightforward an account of himself, corrobo- 
rating it with many particulars concerning Jakes’s brother, 
the Colonel, that Jakes was staggered by it. 

“ Patrick,” said he, aside to Collins, “ a’n’t it just possi- 
ble the other Dodd is the man 1 You know we thought we 
had seen him before ! ” 

“ Ah ! but they ’re cunning divils ! Don’t ye belaive a 
word this feller says,” replied Collins. 


358 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


Jakes, however, was secretly persuaded of his blunder ; 
and he so far deferred to the wishes of his prisoner as to 
drive over toward Longtrot in pursuit of “ the other 
Dodd.” So it happened that the real Dodd’s capture as a 
madman resulted to his advantage, since it hastened the 
denouement of his unhappy adventure, and enabled him, 
after all, to preach for Selwyn. 

The denouement took place in front of the meeting-house, 
where Levi was still holding Jervey’s horse ; where two 
men, seated in Dodd’s buggy, were just starting in search 
of the owner, — or, rather, trying to start, for the bay mare 
had something to say about that ; and where Patrick, 
catching a glimpse of Jervey coming out of the vestry with 
his madman, called to him, “ Jervey, Jervey ! we ’ve got 
the feller ! ” 

“ So have I ! ” cried Jervey ; and there the genuine par- 
son was brought face to face with the counterfeit. 

“Gentlemen,” said Hillbright, bowing low in his bor- 
rowed plumage, “ I succumb ; I see the world is against 
me ; I must still groan under the sins of it ! ” 

“ I owe you a thousand apologies, Mr. Dodd ! ” said 
Jakes. 

“ On the contrary,” replied Dodd, having fully recovered 
his good-humor, “you have done me a service, though it 
did seem to me one while that — what with you and ’your 
Irishman, and your brother and his bay mare — the Jakes 
family was bound to ruin me.” 

“ Step right into my house, friends ! ” said Deacon 
Adams. “ There everything can be arranged.” 

And there everything was arranged, to the satisfaction 
of everybody, excepting perhaps Hillbright, who was re- 
luctant to put off his Heaven-sent apparel and return to 
the Asylum without fulfilling his great mission. 

Parson Dodd was himself again when he appeared in the 


PREACHING FOR SELWYN. 


359 


desk ; and it is said that he preached for Selwyn that day 
one of his very best sermons 

“ What a beautiful discourse ! ” said one of the Five Sis- 
ters, thanking him for it as he was going out of church. 

“ And, only think, sisters,” said another of them, “ how 
near we come to missin’ it, all on account of that dreadful 
crazy man ! I hope his keepers have got him safe ! ” 

“ I hope they have ! ” said Parson Dodd, dryly, as he 
walked out with Melissa, and went over to lunch at the 
parsonage. 

The joke was out before the afternoon services began ; 
and when Dodd reappeared in the desk, it was with diffi- 
culty that either he or the gravest of his hearers repressed 
a very strong inclination to smile. 

The news of his mishap reached Coldwater before he 
did; Superintendent Jakes — to atone for his blunder, I 
suppose — having ridden over that afternoon to remon- 
strate with his brother, the Colonel, for putting off on the 
parson so vicious a brute as the bay mare. The whole 
thing struck the Colonel as so good a joke, and put him 
into such excellent humor, that he voluntarily drove the 
old gray over to Dodd’s the next morning, and offered to 
swap back, which offer was most cheerfully accepted by 
the parson. “Didn’t I tell ye,” said Jakes, “that the 
creatur’ was always poorest at the start 1 ” So Dodd got 
back his old gray, and somebody else got shaved on the 
bay mare. 

Parson Dodd continued to travel occasionally the Long- 
trot road, both on Sunday mornings and week-day after- 
noons, until after his marriage. But now Melissa and the 
children (he is remarkably fond of children) make his home 
so delightful to him that he leaves it as seldom as possible. 
And so it happens that of late years he very rarely goes 
over to preach for Selwyn. 


THE ROMANCE OF A GLOVE. 


“ ~1 TOLD on ! ” cried my travelling companion. “ The 
XJL gentleman has dropped something.” 

The driver pulled up his horses ; and before I could pre- 
vent him, Westwood leaped down from the vehicle, and 
ran back for the article that had been dropped. 

It was a glove, — my glove, which I had inadvertently 
thrown out, in taking my handkerchief from my pocket. 

“ Go on, driver ! ” and he tossed it into my hand as he 
resumed his seat in the open stage. “ I once found a ro- 
mance in a glove. Since then, gloves are sacred.” 

“ A romance 1 Tell me about that. I am tired of this 
endless stretch of sea-like country, these regular ground- 
swells ; and it ’s a good two hours’ ride yet to our stopping- 
place. Meanwhile, your romance.” 

“ Did I say romance 1 I fear you would hardly think it 
worthy of the name,” said my companion. “ Every life 
has its romantic episodes, or, at least, incidents which ap- 
pear such to those who experience them. But these ten- 
der little histories are usually insipid enough when told. 
I have a maiden aunt, who once came so near having an 
offer from a pale stripling, with dark hair, seven years her 
junior, that to this day she often alludes to the circum- 
stance, with the remark, that she wishes she knew some 
competent novel-writer in whom she could confide, feeling 
sure that the story of that period of her life would make 
the groundwork of a magnificent work of fiction. Possi- 


THE ROMANCE OF A GLOVE. 


361 


bly I inherit my aunt’s tendency to magnify into extraor- 
dinary proportions trifles which I look at through the 
double convex lens of a personal interest. So don’t expect 
too much of my romance, and you shall hear it. 

“ I said I found it in a glove. It was by no means a 
remarkable glove, — middle-sized, straw-colored, and a 
neat fit for this hand. Of course, there was a young lady 
in the case ; — let me see, — I don’t believe I can tell you 
the story,” said Westwood, “ after all ! 

I gently urged him to proceed. 

“ Pshaw ! ” said he, after kindling a cigar with a few 
vigorous whiffs, “ what ’s the use of being foolish ? My 
aunt was never diffident about telling her story, and why 
should I hesitate to tell mine 1 The young lady’s name, — 
we ’ll call her Margaret. She was a blonde, with hazel eyes 
and dark hair. Perhaps you never heard of a blonde with 
hazel eyes and dark hair 1 She was the only one I ever 
saw ; and there was the finest contrast imaginable between 
her fair, fresh complexion, and her superb tresses and deli- 
cately traced eyebrows. She was certainly lovely, if not 
handsome ; and — such eyes ! It was an event in one’s 
life, sir, just to look through those luminous windows into 
her soul. That could not happen every day, to be sure ! 
Sometimes for weeks she kept them turned from me, the 
ivory shutters half closed, or the mystic curtains of reserve 
drawn within ; then, again, when I was tortured with un- 
satisfied yearnings, and almost ready to despair, she would 
suddenly turn them upon me, the shutters thrown wide, 
the curtains away, and a flood of radiance streaming forth, 
that filled me so full of light and gladness, that I had no 
shadowy nook left in me for a doubt to hide in. She must 
have been conscious of this power of expression, — she used 
it so sparingly, and, it seemed to me, artfully ! But I 
always forgave her when she did use it, and cherished resent- 
ment only when she did not. 


362 


THE ROMANCE OF A GLOVE. 


“ Margaret was shy and proud ; I could never completely 
win her confidence ; but I knew, I knew well at last, that 
her heart was mine. And a deep, tender, woman’s heart 
it was, too, despite her reserve. Without many words, we 
understood each other, and so — Pshaw ! ” said West- 
wood, “ my cigar is out ! ” 

“ On with the story ! ” 

“Well, we had our lovers’ quarrels, of course. Singular, 
what foolish children love makes of us ! — rendering us 
sensitive, jealous, exacting, in the superlative degree. I 
am sure, we were both amiable and forbearing towards 
all the world besides ; but, for the powerful reason that 
we loved, we were bound to misinterpret words, looks, and 
actions, and wound each other on every convenient occa- 
sion. I was pained by her attentions to others, or perhaps 
by an apparent preference of a book or a bouquet to me. 
Retaliation on my part and quiet persistence on hers con- 
tinued to estrange us, until I generally ended by conceding 
everything and pleading for one word of kindness to end 
my misery. 

“ I was wrong, — too quick to resent, too ready to con- 
cede. No doubt it was to her a secret gratification to exer- 
cise her power over me ; and at last I was convinced that 
she wounded me purposely, in order to provoke a temporary 
estrangement and enjoy a repetition of her triumph. 

“ It was at a party ; the thing she did was to waltz with 
a man whom she knew I detested, whom / knew she could 
not respect, and whose half-embrace, as he whirled her in 
the dance, almost put murder into my thoughts. 

“ * Margaret,’ I said, ‘ one last word ! If you care for 
me, beware ! ’ 

“ That was a foolish speech, perhaps. It was certainly 
ineffectual. She persisted, looking so calm and composed 
that a great weight fell upon my heart. I walked away ; 


THE ROMANCE OF A GLOVE. 


363 


I wandered about the saloons ; I tried to gossip and be 
gay ; but the wound was too deep. 

“I accompanied her home, late in the evening. We 
scarcely spoke by the way. At the door, she looked me 
sadly in the face, — she gave me her hand ; I thought it 
trembled. 

“ 1 Good night ! ’ she said, in a low voice. 

“ ‘ Good by ! ’ I answered, coldly, and hurried from the 
house. 

“ It was some consolation to hear her close the door after 
I had reached the corner of the street, and to know that 
she had been listening to my footsteps. But I was very 
angry. I made stern resolutions ; I vowed to myself that 
I would wring her heart, and never swerve from my pur* 
pose until I had wrung out of it abundant drops of sorrow 
and contritioti. How I succeeded you shall hear. 

“ I had previously engaged her to attend a series of 
concerts with me ; an arrangement which I did not now 
regret, and for good reasons. Once a week, with extreme 
punctuality, I called for her, escorted her to the concert- 
room, and carefully reconducted her home, — letting no 
opportunity pass to show her a true gentleman’s deference 
and respect, — conversing with her freely about music, 
books, anything, in short, except what we both knew to be 
deepest in each other’s thoughts. Upon other occasions 
I avoided her, and even refrained from going to places 
where she was expected, — especially where she knew that 
I knew she was expected. 

“ Well,” continued Westwood, “ my designs upon her 
heart, which I was going to wring so unmercifully, did not 
meet with very brilliant success. To confess the humili- 
ating truth, I soon found that I was torturing myself a 
good deal more than I was torturing her. As a last and 
desperate resort, what do you think I did 1 ” 


364 


THE it OMAN GE OE A GLOVE. 


“ You probably asked her to ask your forgiveness.” 

“ Not I ! I have a will of adamant, as people find, who 
tear away the amiable flowers and light soil that cover it ; 
and she had reached the impenetrable, firm rock. I neither 
made any advances towards a reconciliation nor invited 
any. But I ’ll tell you what I did do, as a final trial of 
her heart. I had, for some time, been meditating a Euro- 
pean tour, and my interest in her had alone kept me at 
home. Some friends of mine were to sail early in the 
spring, and I now resolved to accompany them. I don’t 
know how much pride and spite there was in the resolution, 
— probably a good deal. I confess I wished to make her 
suffer, — to show her that she had calculated too much 
upon my weakness, — that I could be strong and happy 
without her. Yet, with all this bitter and vindictive feel- 
ing, I listened to a very sweet and tender whisper in my 
heart, which said, ‘ Now, if her love speaks out, — now, if 
she says to me one true, kind, womanly word, — she shall 
go with me, and nothing shall ever take her from me 
again ! ’ The thought of what might be, if she would but 
say that word, and of what must be, irrevocably, if her 
pride held out, shook me mightily. But my resolution 
was. taken. 

“ On the day of the last concert, I imparted the secret 
of my intended journey to a person who, I felt tolerably 
sure, would rush at once to Margaret with the news. 
Then, in the evening, I went for her ; I was conscious that 
my manner towards her was a little more tender, or, rather, 
a little less coldly courteous, that night, than it had 
usually been of late ; for my feelings were softened, and I 
had never seen her so lovely. I had never before known 
what a treasure I was about to lose. The subject of my 
voyage was not mentioned, and if she had heard of it, she 
accepted the fact without the least visible concern. Her 


THE ROMANCE OF A GLOVE. 


365 


quietness under the circumstances chilled me and dis- 
heartened me. I am not one of those who can give much 
superfluous love, or cling with unreasonable, blind passion 
to an object that yields no affection in return. A quick 
and effectual method of curing a fancy in persons of my 
temperament is to teach them that it is not reciprocated. 
Then it expires like a flame cut off from the air, or 
a plant removed from the soil. The death-struggle, the 
uprooting, is the painful thing ; but when the heart is 
thoroughly convinced that its love is misplaced, it gives 
up, with one last sigh as big as fate, sheds a few tears, 
says a prayer or two, thanks God for the experience, and 
becomes a wiser, calmer, — yes, and a happier heart than 
before.” 

“ True,” I said ; “ but our hearts are not easily con- 
vinced.” 

“ Ay, there ’s the rub. It is for want of a true percep- 
tion. There cannot be a true love without a true per- 
ception. Love is for the soul to know, from its own 
intuition ; not for the understanding to believe, from the 
testimony of those very unreliable witnesses called eyes 
and ears. This seems to have been my case; my soul 
was aware of her love, and all the evidence of my external 
senses could not altogether destroy that interior faith. 
But that evening I said, ‘ I believe you now, my senses ! 
I doubt you now, my soul ! She never loved me ! ’ So 
I was really very cold towards her — for about twenty 
minutes. 

“ I walked home with her ; we were both silent ; but 
at the door she asked me to go in. Here my calmness 
deserted me and I could hardly hold my heart, while I 
replied, * If you particularly wish it.’ 

“ ‘ If I did not, I should not ask you/ she said ; and I 
went in. 


366 


THE ROMANCE OF A GLOVE. 


“ I was ashamed and vexed at myself for trembling so, 

for I was in a tremor from head to foot. There was 

company in the parlors, — some of Margaret’s friends. I 
took my seat upon a sofa, and soon she came and sat by 
my side. 

“ ‘ I suppose,’ said one, ‘ Mr. Westwood has been telling 
Margaret all about it.’ 

“‘About what?’ Margaret inquired, — and here the 
truth flashed upon me, — the news of my proposed voy- 
age had not yet reached her ! She looked at me 
with a troubled, questioning expression, and said, ‘ I felt 
that something was going to happen. Tell me what 
it is.* 

“ I answered, ‘ Your friend can best explain what she 
means.’ 

“ Then out came the secret. A shock of surprise sent 
the color from Margaret’s face ; and raising her eyes she 
asked, quite calmly, but in a low and unnatural tone, ‘ Is 
this so ? You are really going ? ’ 

I am really going.’ 

“ She could not hide her agitation. Her white face be- 
trayed her. Then I was glad, wickedly glad, in my heart, 
and vain enough to be gratified that others should behold 
and know I held a power over her. Well, — but I suffered 
for that folly. 

“ ‘ I feel hurt,’ she said after a little while, ‘ because 
you have not told me this. You have no sister,’ (this was 
spoken very quietly,) ‘ and it would have been a privilege 
for me to take a sister’s place, and do for you those little 
things which sisters do for brothers who are going on long 
journeys.’ 

“ I was choked ; it was a minute before I could speak. 
Then I said that I saw no reason why she should tax her 
time or thoughts to do anything for me. 




THE ROMANCE OF A GLOVE. 367 

“ ‘ 0, you know/ she said, ‘ you have been kind to me, 
so much kinder than I have deserved ! ’ 

“ It was unendurable, — the pathos of those words ! If 
we had been alone, there our trial would have ended. But 
the eyes of others were upon us, and I steeled myself. 

“ ‘ Besides/ I said, 1 1 know of nothing that you can do 
for me.’ 

“ ‘ There must be many little things ; to begin with, 
there is your glove, which you are tearing to pieces.’ 

“ True, I was tearing my glove ; she was calm enough 
to observe it ! That made me angry. 

“ ‘ Give it to me ; I will mend it for you. Have n’t you 
other gloves that need mending 1 ’ 

“ I, who had triumphed, was humbled. My heart was 
breaking, — and she talked of mending gloves ! I did not 
omit to thank her. I coldly arose to go. 

“ Well, I felt now that it was all over. The next day I 
secured my passage in the steamer in which my friends 
were to sail. I took pains that Margaret should hear of 
that, too. Then came the preparations for travel, — ar- 
ranging affairs, writing letters, providing myself with a 
compact and comfortable outfit. Europe was in prospect, 
— Paris, Switzerland, Italy, lands to which my dreams 
had long since gone before me, and to which I now turned 
my eyes with reawakening aspirations. A new glory arose 
upon my life, in the light of which Margaret became a 
fading star. It was so much easier than I had thought to 
give her up, to part from her ! I found that I could for- 
get her in the excitement of a fresh and novel experience ; 
while she, — could she forget me 1 When lovers part, 
happy is he who goes ! alas for the one that is left be- 
hind ! 

“ One day when I was busy with the books which I was 
to take with me, a small package was handed in. I need 


368 


THE ROMANCE OF A GLOVE. 


not tell you that I experienced a thrill when I saw Mar- 
garet’s handwriting upon the wrapper. I tore it open, — 
and what think you I found! My glove ! Nothing else. 
I smiled bitterly, to see how neatly she had mended it; 
then I sighed ; then I said, * It is finished ! ’ and tossed 
the glove disdainfully into my trunk. 

“ On the day before that fixed for the sailing of the 
steamer, I made farewell calls upon many of my friends, — 
among others, upon Margaret. But, through the perver- 
sity of pride and will, I did not go alone ; I took with me 
Joseph, a mutual acquaintance, who was to be my travel- 
ling-companion. I felt some misgivings, when I saw how 
Margaret had changed ; she was so softened, and so pale ! 

“ The interview was a painful one, and I cut it short. 
As we were going out, she gently detained me, and said, 

‘ Did you receive — your glove ! * 

“ ‘ 0 yes,’ I said, and thanked her for mending it. 

“ ‘ And this is all — all you have to say ! ’ she asked. 

“ ‘ I have nothing more to say, — except good by.’ 

“ She held my hand. ‘ Nothing else 1 ’ 

“ ‘ No, — it is useless to talk of the past, Margaret; 
and the future, — may you be happy ! Good by ! * 

“ I thought she would speak ; I could not believe she 
would let me go ; but she did ! I bore up well until 
night. Then came a revulsion. I walked three times 
past the house, wofully tempted, my love and my will at 
cruel warfare ; but I did not go in. At midnight I saw 
the light in her room extinguished ; I knew she had re- 
tired, but whether to sleep, or weep, or pray, — how could 
I tell 1 I went home. I did not close my eyes that night. 
I was glad to see the morning come, after such a night ! 

“ The steamer was to sail at ten. The bustle of em- 
barkation ; strange scenes and strange faces ; parting from 
friends ; the ringing of the bell ; last adieus, — some, who 


THE ROMANCE OF A GLOVE. 


369 


were to go with us, hurrying aboard, others, who were to 
stay behind, as hastily going ashore ; the withdrawal of 
the plank, — sad sight to many eyes ! casting off the lines, 
the steamer swinging heavily around, the rushing, irregu- 
lar motion of the great, slow paddles ; the waving of hand- 
kerchiefs from the decks, and the responsive signals from 
the crowd lining the wharf ; off at last, — the faces of 
friends, the crowd, the piers, and, lastly, the city itself, 
fading from sight ; the dash of spray, the freshening breeze, 
the novel sight of our little world detaching itself and 
floating away ; the feeling that America was past, and Eu- 
rope was next ; — all this filled my mind with animation 
and excitement, which shut out thoughts of Margaret. 
Could I have looked with clairvoyant vision, and beheld 
her then, locked in her chamber, should I have been so 
happy] 0, what fools vanity and pride make of us! 
Even then, with my heart high-strung with hope and 
courage, had I known the truth, I should have abandoned 
my friends, the voyage, and Europe, and returned in the 
pilot’s boat, to find something more precious than all the 
continents and countries of the globe in the love of that 
heart which I was carelessly flinging away.” 

Here Westwood took breath. The sun was now almost 
set. The prairie was still and cool ; the heavy dews were 
beginning to fall ; the shadows of the green and flowered 
undulations filled the hollows, like a rising tide ; and the 
horses moved at a quicker pace. Westwood lighted his 
cigar, drew a few whiffs, and proceeded. 

‘‘We had a voyage of eleven days. But to me an im- 
mense amount of experience was crowded into that brief 
period. The fine exhilaration of the start, — the breeze 
gradually increasing to a gale ; then horrible sea-sickness, 
home-sickness, love-sickness ; after which, the weather 
which sailors love, games, gayety, and flirtation. There is 
16 * x 


370 


THE ROMANCE OF A GLOVE. 


no such social freedom to be enjoyed anywhere as on board 
an ocean steamer. The breaking up of old associations, 
the opening of a fresh existence, the necessity of new 
relationships, — this fuses the crust of conventionality, 
quickens the springs of life, and renders character sym- 
pathetic and fluent. The past is easily put away ; we be- 
come plastic to new influences ; we are delighted at the 
discovery of unexpected affinities, and astonished to find 
in ourselves so much wit, eloquence, and fine susceptibility 
which we did not before dream we possessed. 

“ This freedom is especially provocative of flirtation. 
We see each fair brow touched with a halo whose colors 
are the reflection of our own beautiful dreams. Loveliness 
is tenfold more lovely, bathed in this atmosphere of ro- 
mance ; and manhood is invested with ideal graces. Don’t 
think I am now artfully preparing your mind to excuse 
what I am about to confess. Take these things into con- 
sideration, if you will ; then think as you please of the 
weakness and wild impulse with which I fell in love 
with — 

“ Call her Flora. The most superb, captivating crea' 
ture that ever insnared the hearts of the sons of Adam. 
A fine olive complexion ; magnificent dark auburn hair j 
eyes full of fire and softness ; lips that could pout or smile 
with incomparable fascination ; a figure of surprising sym- 
metry, just voluptuous enough. But, after all, her great 
power lay in her freedom from all affectation and conven- 
tionality, — in her spontaneity, her free, sparkling, and 
vivacious manners. She was the most daring and dazzling 
of women, without ever appearing immodest or repulsive. 
She walked with such proud, secure steps over the com- 
monly accepted barriers of social intercourse, that even 
those who blamed her and pretended to be shocked were 
compelled to admire. She was the belle, the Juno, of the 


THE ROMANCE OF A GLOVE. 


371 


saloon, the supreme ornament of the upper deck. Just 
twenty, — not without wit and culture, — full of poetry 
and enthusiasm. Do you blame me 1 ” 

“Not a whit,” I said ; “ but for Margaret — ” 

“Ah, Margaret!” said Westwood, with a sigh. “But, 
you see, I had given her up. And when one love is lost, 
there sink such awful chasms into the soul, that, though 
they cannot be filled, we must at least bridge them over 
with a new affection. The number of marriages built in 
this way, upon false foundations of hollowness and despair, 
is incomputable. We talk of jilted lovers and disap- 
pointed girls marrying 1 out of spite.’ No doubt, such 
petty feeling hurries forward many premature matches. 
But it is the heart, left shaken, unsupported, wretchedly 
sinking, which reaches out for sympathy, and clings like 
a helpless vine to the sunny-sided wall of the nearest con- 
solation. If you wish to marry a girl and can’t, and are 
weak enough to desire her still, this is what you should 
do : get some capable man to jilt her. Then seize your 
chance. All the affections which have gone out to him, 
unmet, ready to droop, quivering with the painful, hungry 
instinct to grasp some object, may possibly lay hold of 
you. Let the world sneer ; but God pity such natures, 
which lack the faith and fortitude to live and die true to 
their best love ! 

“Out of my own mouth do I condemn myself 1 Very 
well, I condemn myself ; peccavi ! If I had ever loved 
Margaret, then I did not love Flora. The same heart can- 
not find its counterpart indifferently in two such opposites. 
What charmed me in one was her purity, softness, and 
depth of soul. What fascinated me in the other was her 
bloom, beauty, and passion. Which was the true sym- 
pathy 1 

“ I did not stop to ask that question when it was most 


372 


THE ROMANCE OF A GLOVE. 


important that it should be seriously considered. I rushed 
into the crowd of competitors for Flora’s smiles, and dis- 
tanced them all. I was pleased and proud that she took no 
pains to conceal her preference for me. We played chess ; 
we read poetry out of the same hook ; we ate at the same 
table ; we sat and watched the sea together, for hours, in 
those clear, bright days ; we promenaded the deck at sun- 
set, her hand upon my arm, her lips forever turning up 
tenderly towards me, her eyes pouring their passion into 
me. Then those glorious nights, when the ocean was a 
vast, wild, fluctuating stream, flashing and sparkling about 
the ship, spanned with a quivering bridge of splendor on 
one side, and rolling off into awful darkness and mystery 
on the other ; when the moon seemed swinging among the 
shrouds like a ball of white fire ; when the few ships went 
by like silent ghosts ; and Flora and I, in a long trance of 
happiness, kept the deck, heedless of the throng of prom- 
enaders, forgetful of the past, reckless of the future, aware 
only of our own romance and the richness of the present 
hour. 

“ Joseph, my travelling-companion, looked on, and wrote 
letters. He showed me one 'of these, addressed to a friend 
of Margaret’s. In it he extolled Flora’s beauty, piquancy, 
and supremacy ; related how she made all the women jeal- 
ous and all the men mad ; and hinted at my triumph. I 
knew that the letter would reach Margaret’s eyes, and was 
vain enough to be pleased. 

“ At last, one morning at daybreak, I went on deck, 
and saw the shores of England. Only a few days before, 
we had left America behind us, brown and leafless, just 
emerging from the long gloom of winter ; and now the 
slopes of another world arose green and inviting in the flush 
of spring. There was a bracing breeze ; the dingy waters 
of the Mersey rolled up in wreaths of beauty ; the fleets of 


THE KOMANCE OF A GLOVE. 


373 


ships, steamers, sloops, lighters, pilot-boats, bounding over 
the waves, meeting, tacking, plunging, swaying gracefully 
under the full-swelling canvas, presented a picture of 
wonderful animation ; and the mingling hues of sunshine 
and mist hung over all. I paced the deck, solemnly joyful, 
swift thoughts pulsing through me of a dim far-off Mar 
garet, of a near radiant Flora, of hope and happiness supe- 
rior to fate. It was one of those times when the excited 
soul transfigures the world, and we marvel how we could 
ever succumb to a transient sorrow while the whole uni- 
verse blooms, and an infinite future waits to open for us its 
doors of wonder and joy. 

“ In this state of mind I was joined by Flora. She laid 
her hand on my arm, and we walked up and down together. 
She was serious, almost sad, and she viewed the English 
hills with a pensiveness which became her better than 
mirth. 

“ * So,’ she sighed, 1 all our little romances come to an 
end ! ’ 

“ * Not so,’ I said ; ‘or if one romance ends, it is to give 
place to another, still truer and sweeter. Our lives may 
be all a succession of romances, if we will make them so. 
I think now I will never doubt the future ; for I find that, 
when I have given up my dearest hopes, my best beloved 
friends, and accepted the gloomy belief that all life besides 
is barren, — then comes some new experience, filling my 
empty cup with still more delicious wine.’ 

“ ‘ Don’t vex me with your philosophy ! ’ said Flora. * I 
don’t know anything about it. All I know is this present, 
— this sky, this earth, this sea, and the joy between, which 
I can’t give up quite so easily as you can, with your beau- 
tiful theory that something better awaits you.’ 

“‘I have told you,’ I replied, — for I had been quite 
frank with her, — ‘ how I left America, — what a blank 


374 


THE ROMANCE OF A GLOVE. 


life was to me then ; and did I not turn my back upon all 
that to meet face to face the greatest happiness which I 
have ever yet known 3 Ought not this to give me faith in 
the divinity that shapes our ends 1 ” 

“ 4 And so,’ she answered, 4 when I have lost you, I shall 
have the satisfaction of thinking that you are enjoying 
some still more exquisite consolation for the slight pangs 
you may have felt at parting from me ! Your philosophy 
will make it easy for you to say, “ Good by ! it was a 
pretty romance ; I go to find prettier ones still ; ” and 
then forget me altogether ! ’ 

44 4 And you/ I said, — 4 will that be easy for you 1 ’ 

44 4 Yes/ she cried with spirit, 4 anything is easy to a 
proud woman, who finds that the brief romance of a ten 
days’ acquaintance has already become tiresome to her 
friend. I am glad I have enjoyed what I have ; that is 
so much gain, of which you cannot rob me ; and now I 
can say good by as coolly as you, or I can die of shame, 
or I can at once walk over this single rail into the water, 
and quench this little candle, and so an end ! ’ 

44 She sprang upon a bench, and, I swear to you, I thought 
she was going down ! I was so exalted by this passionate 
demonstration, that I should certainly have gone over 
with her, and felt perfectly content to die in her arms, — 
at least, until I began to realize what a very disagreeable 
bath we had chosen to drown in. 

44 1 drew her away. I walked up and down with that 
superb creature panting and palpitating almost upon my 
heart ; I poured into her ear I know not what extravagant 
vows ; and before the slow-handed sailors had fastened 
their cable to the buoy in the channel, we had knotted a 
more subtile and difficult noose, not to be so easily undone ! 

44 Now see what strange, variable fools we are ! Months 
of tender intercourse had failed to bring about anything 


THE ROMANCE OF A GLOVE. 


375 


like a positive engagement between Margaret and myself; 
and here behold me irrevocably pledged to Flora, after a 
ten days’ acquaintance ! 

“ Six mortal hours were exhausted in making the steam- 
er fast ; in sending off her Majesty’s mails, of which the 
cockney speaks with a tone of reverence altogether disgust- 
ing to us free-minded Yankees; and in entertaining the 
custom-house inspectors, who paid a long and tedious visit 
to the saloon and our luggage. Then we were suffered 
to land, and enter the noisy, solid streets of Liverpool, 
amid the donkeys and beggars and quaint scenes which 
strike the American so oddly upon a first visit. All this 
delay, the weariness and impatience, the contrast between 
the morning and the hard, grim reality of midday, brought 
me down from my elevation. I felt alarmed to think of 
what had passed. I seemed to have been doing some wild, 
unadvised act in a fit of intoxication. Margaret came up 
before me, sad, silent, reproachful; and as I gazed upon 
Flora’s bedimmed face, I wondered how I had been so 
charmed. 

“We took the first train for London, where we arrived 
at midnight. Two weeks in that vast Babel, — then, ho ! 
for Paris ! Twelve hours by rail and steamer carried us 
out of John Bull’s dominions into the brilliant metropolis 
of his French neighbor. Joseph accompanied us, and 
wrote letters home, filled with gossip which I knew would 
reach Margaret. I had not found it so easy to forget her 
as I had supposed it would be. Flora’s power over me 
was sovereign ; but when I was weary of the dazzle and 
whirl of the life she led me, — when I looked into the 
depths of my heart, and saw what the thin film of passion 
and pleasure concealed, — in those serious moments which 
would come, and my soul put stern questions to me, — 
then, sir, — then — Margaret had her revenge. 


376 


THE ROMANCE OF A GLOVE. 


“A month, crowded and glittering with novelty and 
incident, preceded our departure for Switzerland. I ac- 
companied Flora’s party; Joseph remained behind. We 
left Paris about the middle of June, and returned in Sep- 
tember. I have no words to speak of that era in my life. 
I saw, enjoyed, suffered, learned so much ! Flora was 
always glad, magnificent, irresistible. But, as I knew her 
longer, my moments of misgiving became more frequent. 
If I had aspired to nothing higher than a life of sensuous 
delights, she would have been all I could wish. But — 

“We were to spend the winter in Italy. Meanwhile, we 
had another month in Paris. Here I had found Joseph 
again, who troubled me a good deal with certain rumors he 
had received concerning Margaret. According to these, she 
had been in feeble health ever since we left, and her 
increasing delicacy was beginning to alarm her friends. 

‘ But,’ added another of Joseph’s correspondents, ‘ don’t let 
Westwood flatter himself that he is the cause, for she is 
cured of him ; and there is talk of an engagement between 
her and a handsome young clergyman, who is both elo- 
quent and fascinating.’ 

“ This bit of gossip made me very bitter and angry. 

‘ Forget me so soon 1 ’ I said ; ‘ and receive the attentions 
of another man V You see how consistent I was, to con- 
demn her for the very fault I had myself been so eager to 
commit ! 

“ Well, the round of rides, excursions, soirees, visits to 
the operas and theatres, walks on the Boulevards, and in 
the galleries of the Louvre, ended at last. The evening 
before we were to set out for the South of France, I was 
at my lodgings, unpacking and repacking the luggage 
which I had left in Joseph’s care during my absence among 
the Alps ; I was melancholy, dissatisfied with the dissipa- 
tions which had exhausted my time and energies, and 


THE ROMANCE OF A GLOVE. 


377 


thinking of Margaret. I had not preserved a single me- 
mento of her ; and now I wished I had one, — if only a 
withered leaf, or a line of her writing. In this mood I 
chanced to cast my eye upon a stray glove, in the bottom 
of my trunk. I snatched at it eagerly, and, in the impulse 
of the moment, — before I reflected that I was wronging 
Flora, — pressed it to my lips. Yes, I found the place 
where it had been mended, the spot Margaret’s fingers had 
touched, and gave it a kiss for every stitch. Then, in- 
censed at myself, I flung it from me, and hurried from the 
room. I strolled through the Elysian fields ; stopped by 
the concert gardens, and listened to the glorified girls sing- 
ing under rosy and golden pavilions the last songs of the 
season ; wandered about the fountains, — by the gardens 
of the Tuileries, where the trees stood so shadowy and 
still, and the statues gleamed so pale, — along the quays 
of the Seine, where the waves rolled so dark below, — 
trying to settle my thoughts, to master myself, to put 
Margaret from me. 

“Weary at length, I returned to my chamber, seated 
myself composedly, and looked down at the glove which 
lay where I had thrown it, upon the polished floor. Me- 
chanically I stooped and took up a bit of folded paper. It 
was written upon, — I unrolled it, and read. It was as if 
I had opened the record of doom ! Had the apparition of 
Margaret herself risen suddenly before me, I could not 
have been more astounded. It was a note from her, — • 
and such a note ! — full of love, suffering, and humility, — 
poured out of a heart so deep and tender and true that 
the shallowness of my own seemed utterly contemptible 
in comparison with it. I cannot tell you what was written, 
but it was more than even my most cruel and exacting 
pride could have asked. It was what would once have 
made me wild with joy; now it almost maddened me 


378 


THE ROMANCE OF A GLOVE. 


with despair. I, who had often talked fine philosophy to 
others, had not a grain of that article left to physic my 
own malady. But one course seemed plain before me, and 
that was, to go quietly and drown myself in the Seine, 
which I had seen flowing so swift and dark under the 
bridges, an hour ago, when I stood and mused upon the 
tragical corpses its sullen flood had swallowed. 

“ I am a little given to superstition, and the mystery of 
the note excited me. I wonder if there was n’t some 
subtile connection between it and the near presence of 
Margaret’s spirit, of which I had that night been conscious. 
But the note had reached me by no supernatural method, 
as I was at first half inclined to believe. It was perhaps 
the touch, the atmosphere, the ineffably fine influence 
which surrounded it, which had penetrated my unconscious 
perceptions, and brought her near. The paper, the glove, 
were full of Margaret, — full of something besides what we 
vaguely call mental associations, — full of emanations of 
the very love and suffering which she had breathed into 
the writing. 

“ How the note came there upon the floor was a riddle 
which I was too much bewildered to explain by any natu- 
ral means. Joseph, who burst in upon me, in my extremity 
of pain and difficulty, solved it at once. It had fallen out 
of the glove, where it had lain folded, silent, unnoticed, 
during all this intervening period of folly and vexation of 
soul. Margaret had done her duty in time ; I had only 
myself to blame for the tangle in which I now found my- 
self. I was thinking of Flora, upon the deck of the steam- 
ship, in a moment of chagrin so near throwing herself 
over, — wondering to what fate her passion and impetu- 
osity would hurry her now, if she knew, — cursing myself 
for my weakness and perfidy; while Joseph kept asking 
me what I intended to do. 


THE ROMANCE OF A GLOVE. 


379 


“ ‘ Do 1 do 1 ’ I said, furiously, ‘ I shall kill you, that is 
is what I shall do, if you drive me mad with questions 
which neither angels nor fiends can answer ! ’ 

“ ‘ I know what you will do/ said Joseph; ‘you will go 
home and marry Margaret.’ 

“ You can have no conception of the effect of these 
words, — Go home and marry Margaret. All that might 
have been, — what might be still, — the happiness cast 
away, and perhaps yet within my reach, — the temptation 
of the Devil, who appealed to my cowardice, to fly from 
Flora, break my vows, risk my honor and her life, for Mar- 
garet, — all this rushed through me tumultuously. At 
length I said : ‘No, Joseph ; I shall do no such thing, 
I can never be worthy of Margaret ; it will be only by 
fasting and prayer that I can make myself worthy of 
Flora.’ 

“ ‘ Will you start for Italy in the morning % ’ he asked, 
pitilessly. 

“ ‘ For Italy in the morning 1 ’ I groaned. Meet Flora, 
travel with her, play the hypocrite, with smiles on my lips 
and hell in my heart, — or thunder-strike her at once with 
the truth ; — what was I to do 1 To some men the ques- 
tion would, perhaps, have presented few difficulties. But 
for me, sir, — who am not quite devoid of conscience, what- 
ever you may think, — having driven Joseph away, I 
locked myself into my room, and suffered the torments of 
the damned, in as quiet a manner as possible, until morn- 
ing. Then Joseph returned, and looked at me with dis- 
may. 

“ ‘ For Heaven’s sake ! ’ he said, ‘ you ought not to let 
this thing kill you ; and it will, if you keep on.’ 

“ ‘ So much the better,’ I said, ‘ if it kills nobody but 
me. But don’t be alarmed. Keep perfectly cool, and 
attend to the commission I am going to trust to you. I 


380 


THE ROMANCE OF A GLOVE. 


can’t see Flora this morning ; I must gain a little time. 
Go to the station of the Lyons Railway, where I have en- 
gaged to meet her party ; say to her that I am detained, 
but that I will join her on the journey. Give her no time 
to question you, and be sure that she does not stay be- 
hind.’ 

“ ‘ I ’ll manage it, — trust me ! ’ said Joseph. And off 
he started. At the end of two hours, which seemed twenty, 
he burst into my room, crying, ‘ Good news ! she is gone ! 
I told her you had lost your passport, and would have 
to get another from our minister.’ 

“ ‘ What ! ’ I exclaimed, ‘ you lied to her 1 ’ 

“ ‘ 0, there was no other way ! ’ said Joseph, ingenu- 
ously, — ‘ she is so sharp ! They ’re to wait for you at 
Marseilles. But I ’ll manage that too. On their arrival 
at the Hotel d’ Orient, they ’ll find a telegraphic despatch 
from me. I wager a hat, they ’ll leave in the first steamer 
for Naples. Then you can follow at your leisure.’ 

“ ‘ Thank you, Joseph.’ 

“ I felt relieved. Then came a reaction. The next day 
I was attacked by fever. I know not how long I struggled 
against it, but it mastered me. The last things I remem- 
ber were the visits of friends, the strange talk of a French 
physician, whispers and consultations, which I knew were 
about me, yet took no interest in; and at length Joseph 
rushing to my bedside, in a flutter of agitation, and gasp- 
ing, ‘ Flora ! ’ 

“ ‘ What of Flora 1 ’ I demanded. 

“ ‘ I telegraphed, but she would n’t go ; she has come 
back ; she is here ! ’ 

“ I w T as sinking back into the stupor from which I had 
been roused, when I heard a rustling which seemed afar 
off, yet was in my chamber ; then a vision appeared to my 
sickened sight, — a face which I dimly thought I had seen 


THE ROMANCE OF A GLOVE. 


381 


before, — a flood of curls and a rain of kisses showering 
upon me, — sobs and devouring caresses, — Flora’s voice 
calling me passionate names ; and I lying so passive, faintly 
struggling to remember, until my soul sank whirling into 
darkness, and I knew no more. 

“One morning, I cannot tell you how long after, I 
awoke and found myself in a strange-looking room, filled 
with strange objects, not the least strange of which was the 
thing that seemed myself. At first I looked with vague 
and motionless curiosity out of the Lethe from which my 
mind slowly emerged ; painless, and at peace ; listlessly 
questioning whether I was alive or dead, — whether the 
limp weight lying in bed there was my body, — the meaning 
of the silence and the closed curtains. Then, with a succes- 
sion of painful flashes, as if the pole of an electrical battery 
had been applied to my brain, memory returned, — Marga- 
ret, Flora, Paris, delirium. I remember next hearing my- 
self groan aloud ; then seeing Joseph at my side. I tried 
to speak, but could not. Upon my pillow was a glove, and 
he placed it against my cheek. An indescribable, excru- 
ciating thrill shot through me; still I could not speak. 
After that came a relapse. Like Mrs. Browning’s poet, I 
lay 

* ’Twixt gloom and gleam, 

With Death and Life at each extreme.’ 

“ But one morning I was better. I could talk. Joseph 
bent over me, weeping for joy. 

“ ‘ The danger is past ! ’ he said. 4 The doctors say you 
will get well ! ’ 

“ ‘ Have I been so ill, then 1 ’ 

“‘111?’ echoed Joseph. ‘Nobody thought you could 
live. We all gave you up, except her ; and she — ’ 

“ ‘ She ! ’ I said ; ‘ is she here ? ’ 

“ ‘ From the moment of her arrival,’ replied Joseph, ‘she 


382 


THE ROMANCE OF A GLOVE. 


has never left you. 0, if you don’t thank God for her,’ 
— he lowered his voice, — ‘ and live all the rest of your 
life just to reward her, you are the most ungrateful wretch ! 
You would certainly have died but for her. She has 
scarcely slept, till this morning, when they said you would 
recover.’ 

“Joseph paused. Every word he spoke went down 
like a weight of lead into my soul. I had, indeed, been 
conscious of a tender hand soothing my pillow, of a lovely 
form flitting through my dreams, of a breath and mag- 
netic touch of love infusing warm, sweet life into me ; 
but it had always seemed Margaret, never Flora. 

“ ‘ The glove 1 ’ I asked. 

“ ‘ Here it is,’ said Joseph. ‘ In your delirium you de- 
manded it ; you would not be without it ; you caressed it, 
and addressed to it the tenderest apostrophes.’ 

“ ‘ And Flora, — she heard ? ’ 

“‘Flora?’ repeated Joseph. ‘Don’t you know — 
have n’t you any idea — what has happened ? It has been 
terrible ! ’ 

“ ‘ Tell me at once ! ’ I said. ‘ Keep nothing back ! ’ 

“ ‘ Immediately on her return from Marseilles, — you 
remember that?’ 

“ ‘ Yes, yes ! go on ! ’ 

“ ‘ She established herself here. Nobody could come 
between her and you ; and a brave, true girl she proved 
herself. 0, but she was wild about you ! She offered the 
doctors extravagant sums — she would have bribed Heaven 
itself, if she could — not to let you die. But there came 
a time, — one night, when you were raving about Marga- 
ret, — I tell you, it was terrible ! She would have the 
truth, and so I told her, — everything, from the beginning. 
It makes me shudder now to think of it, — it struck her so 
like death ! ’ 


THE ROMANCE OF A GLOVE. 


383 


“ ‘ What did she say 1 what did she do 1 ’ 

“ 1 She did n’t say much; — “0 my God ! my God ! ” — 
something like that. The next morning she showed me 
a letter which she had written to Margaret.’ 

“ ‘ To Margaret 1 ’ I started up, but fell back again help- 
less with a groan. 

“ ‘ Yes,’ said Joseph, ‘ and it was a letter worthy of the 
noblest woman. I wrote another, for I thought Margaret 
ought to know everything. It might save her life, and 
yours too. In the mean time, I had got startling news 
from her, — that her health had continued to decline, and 
that her physician had seen no hope for her except in a 
voyage to Italy. She had set out in company with the 
H s, and was by that time in London. I sent the let- 

ters to her there, and — you know the rest.’ 

“ ‘ The rest 1 ’ I said, as a horrible suspicion flashed upon 
me. 1 You told me something terrible had happened.’ 

“ ‘ Yes, — to Flora. But you have heard the worst. 
She is gone ; she is by this time in Rome.’ 

“ ‘ Flora gone 1 But you said she was here.’ 

“ ‘ She ? So she is ! But did you think I meant Flora ? 
I supposed you knew. Not Flora, but Margaret ! Mar- 
garet ! ’ 

“ I shrieked out, ‘ Margaret ! ’ That ’s the last I remem- 
ber, — at least, the last I can tell. She was there, — I 
was in her arms. And Flora had gone, and my dreams 
were true ; and the breath and magnetic touch of love, 
which infused warm, sweet life into me, and seemed not 
Flora’s, but Margaret’s, were no illusion, and — what more 
can I tell ? 

“From the moment of receiving those letters, Marga- 
ret’s energies were roused, and she had begun to regain 
her health. There is no such potent medicine as hope and 
love. It had saved her, and it saved me. My recovery 


384 


THE ROMANCE OF A GLOVE. 


was sure and speedy. The happiness which had seemed 
too great, too dear to be ever possible, was now mine. She 
was with me again, all my own ! Only the convalescent, 
who feels the glow of love quicken the pure pulses of re- 
turning health, knows what perfect bliss is. 

“ As soon as I was strong enough to travel, we set out 
for Italy, the faithful Joseph accompanying us. We en- 
joyed Florence, its palaces and galleries of art, the quaint 
old churches, about which the religious sentiment of ages 
seems to hang like an atmosphere, the morning and even- 
ing clamor of musical bells, the Arno, and the olive- 
crowned Tuscan hills, — all so delightful to the senses and 
the soul. After Florence, Naples, with its beautiful, dan- 
gerous, volcanic environs, where the ancients aptly located 
their heaven and hell, and where a luxurious, passionate 
people absorbs into its blood the spirit of the soil, and the 
.fire and languor of the clime. From Naples to Rome, 
where we saw St. Peter’s, that bubble on the surface of 
the globe, which the next earthquake may burst, the Vati- 
can, with its marvels of statuary, the ruined temples of 
the old gods and heroes, the Campagna, the Pope, and — 
Flora. 

“We had but a glimpse of her. It was one night, at the 
Colosseum. We had been musing about that vast and sol- 
emn pile by the moonlight, which silvered it over with in- 
describable beauty, and at last, accompanied by our guides, 
bearing torches, we ascended through dark and broken 
passages to the upper benches of the amphitheatre. As 
we were passing along one side, we saw picturesquely mov- 
ing through the shadows of the opposite walls, with the 
immense arena between, the red-flaring torches and half- 
illuminated figures of another party of visitors. I don’t 
know whether it was instinct, or acuteness of vision, that 
suggested Flora ; but, with a sudden leap of the heart, I 


THE ROMANCE OF A GLOVE. 


385 


felt that she was there. We descended, and passed out 
under the dark arches of the stupendous ruin. The other 
visitors walked a little in advance of us, two of the 
number lingering behind their companions ; and we heard 
certain words of tenderness and passion which strangely- 
brought to my mind those nights on the ocean steamer. 

“ ‘ What is the matter with youT said Margaret, looking 
in my face. 

44 4 Hush ! ’ I whispered ; 4 there — that woman — is 
Flora ! ’ 

44 She clung to me ; I drew her closer, as we paused ; 
and the happy couple went on, over the ancient Forum, by 
the silent columns of the ruined temples, and disappeared 
from sight upon the summit of the Capitoline Hill. 

44 A few months later, we heard of the marriage of Flora 
to an English baronet ; she is now my Lady , and I must 
do her the justice to say that I never knew a woman bet- 
ter fitted to bear that title. As for Margaret, — if you 
will return with me to my home on the Hudson, after we 
have finished our hunt after those Western lands, you shall 
see her, together with the loveliest pair of children that 
ever made two proud parents happy. 

44 And here,” added Westwood, 44 we have arrived at the 
end of our day’s journey ; we have had the Romance of 
the Glove, and now — let ’s have some supper.” 


17 


Y 


THE MAN WHO STOLE A MEETING-HOUSE. 


O N a recent journey to the Pennsylvania oil regions, I 
stopped one evening with a fellow-traveller at a vil- 
lage which had just been thrown into a turmoil of excite- 
ment by the exploits of a horse-thief. As we sat around 
the tavern hearth, after supper, we heard the particulars 
of the rogue’s capture and escape fully discussed ; then 
followed many another tale of theft and robbery, told 
amid curling puffs of tobacco-smoke ; until, at the close of 
an exciting story, one of the natives turned to my travel- 
ling acquaintance, and, with a broad laugh, said, “ Kin ye 
beat that, stranger 1 ” 

“Well, I don’t know, — maybe I could if I should try. 
I never happened to fall in with any such tall horse-steal- 
ing as you tell of, but I knew a man who stole a meeting- 
house once.” 

“ Stole a meetin’-house ! That goes a little beyant any- 
thing yit,” remarked another of the honest villagers. “Ye 
don’t mean he stole it and carried it away 1 ” 

“Stole it and carried it away,” repeated my travelling 
companion, seriously, crossing his legs, and resting his arm 
on the back of his chair. “ And, more than all that, I 
helped him.” 

“ How happened that 1 — for you don’t look much like a 
thief, yourself.” 

All eyes were now turned upon my friend, a plain New 


THE MAN WHO STOLE A MEETING-HOUSE. 387 


England farmer, whose honest homespun appearance and 
candid speech commanded respect. 

“ I was his hired man, and I acted under orders. His 
name was Jedwort, — Old Jed wort, the boys called him, 
although he was n’t above fifty when the crooked little cir- 
cumstance happened which I ’ll make as straight a story 
of as I can, if the company would like to hear it.” 

“ Sartin, stranger ! sartin ! about stealin’ the meetin’- 
house ! ” chimed in two or three voices. 

My friend cleared his throat, put his hair behind his 
ears, and with a grave, smooth face, but with a merry 
twinkle in his shrewd gray eye, began as follows : — 

“ Jedwort, I said his name was ; and I shall never for- 
get how he looked one particular morning. He stood 
leaning on the front gate, — or rather on the post, for the 
gate itself was such a shackling concern a child could n’t 
have leaned on ’t without breaking it down. And Jedwort 
was no child. Think of a stoutish, stooping, duck-legged 
man, with a mountainous back, strongly suggestive of a 
bag of grist under his shirt, and you have him. That ima- 
ginary grist had been growing heavier and heavier, and 
he more and more bent under it, for the last fifteen years 
and more, until his head and neck just came forward out 
from between his shoulders like a turtle’s from its shell. 
His arms hung, as he walked, almost to the ground. Be- 
ing curved with the elbows outward, he looked for all the 
world, in a front view, like a waddling interrogation-point 
enclosed in a parenthesis. If man was ever a quadruped, 
as I ’ve heard some folks tell, and rose gradually from four 
legs to two, there must have been a time, very early in his 
history, when he went about like Old Jedwort. 

“ The gate had been a very good gate in its day. It 
had even. been a genteel gate when Jedwort came into pos- 
session of the place by marrying his wife, who inherited it 


388 THE MAN WHO STOLE A MEETING-HOUSE. 


from her uncle. That was some twenty years before, and 
everything had been going to rack and ruin ever since. 

“Jedwort himself had been going to rack and ruin, 
morally speaking. He was a middling decent sort of man 
when I first knew him ; and I judge there must have been 
something about him more than common, or he never 
could have got such a wife. But then women do marry, 
sometimes, unaccountably. I’ve known downright ugly 
and disagreeable fellows to work around, till by and by 
they would get a pretty girl fascinated by something in 
them which nobody else could see, and then marry her in 
spite of everything; — just as you may have seen a mag- 
net.izer on the stage make his subjects do just what he 
pleased, or a black snake charm a bird. Talk about wo- 
men marrying with their eyes open, under such circum- 
stances ! They don’t marry with their eyes open : they 
are put to sleep, in one sense, and a’n’t more than half re- 
sponsible for what they do, if they are that. Then rises 
the question that has puzzled wiser heads than any of ours 
here, and will puzzle more yet, till society is different from 
what it is now, — how much a refined and sensitive woman 
is bound to suffer from a coarse and disgusting master, 
legally called her husband, before she is entitled to break 
off a bad bargain she scarce had a hand in making. I ’ve 
sat here to-night, and heard about men getting goods un- 
der false pretences ; you ’ve told some astonishing big sto- 
ries, gentlemen, about rogues stealing horses and sleighs ; 
and I ’m going to tell you about the man who stole a meet- 
ing-house ; but, when all is said, I guess it will be found 
that more extraordinary thieving than all that often goes 
on under our own eyes, and nobody takes any notice of it. 
There ’s such a thing, gentlemen, as getting hearts under 
false pretences. There ’s such a thing as a man’s stealing 
a wife. 


THE MAN WHO STOLE A MEETING-HOUSE. 389 


“ I speak with feeling on this subject, for I had an op- 
portunity of seeing what Mrs. Jed wort had to put up with 
from a man no woman of her stamp could do anything 
but detest. She was the patientest creature you ever 
saw. She was even too patient. If I had been tied to 
such a cub, I think I should have cultivated the beau- 
tiful and benignant qualities of a wild-cat; there would 
have been one good fight, and one of us would have 
been living, and the other would have been dead, and that 
would have been the end of it. But Mrs. Jed wort bore 
and bore untold miseries, and a large number of children. 
She had had nine of these, and three were under the sod 
and six above it when Jedwort ran off with the meeting- 
house in the way I am going on to tell you. There was 
Maria, the oldest girl, a perfect picture of what her mother 
had been at nineteen. Then there were the two boys, 
Dave and Dan, fine young fellows, spite of their father. 
Then came Lottie, and Susie, and then Willie, a little 
four-year-old. 

“ It was amazing to see what the mother would do to 
keep her family looking decent with the little means she 
had. For Jedwort was the tightest screw ever you saw. 
It was avarice that had spoilt him, and came so near turn- 
ing him into a beast. The boys used to say he grew so 
bent, looking in the dirt for pennies. That was true of his 
mind, if not of his body. He was a poor man, and a 
pretty respectable man, when he married his wife ; but he 
had no sooner come into possession of a little property 
than he grew crazy for more. There are a good many 
men in the world, that nobody looks upon as monomaniacs, 
who are crazy in just that sort of way. They are all for 
laying up money, depriving themselves of comforts, and 
their families of the advantages of society and education, 
just to add a few dollars to their hoard every year ; and 


390 THE MAN WHO STOLE A MEETING-HOUSE. 


so they keep on till they die and leave it to their children, 
who would be much better off if a little more had been in- 
vested in the cultivation of their minds and manners, and 
less in stocks and bonds. 

“ Jed wort was just one of that class of men, although 
perhaps he carried the fault I speak of a little to excess. 
A dollar looked so big to him, and he held it so close, that 
at last he could n’t see much of anything else. By degrees 
he lost all regard for decency and his neighbors’ opinions. 
His children went barefoot, even after they got to be great 
boys and girls, because he was too mean to buy them 
shoes. It was pitiful to see a nice, interesting girl, like 
Maria, go about looking as she did, while her father was 
piling his money into the bank. She wanted to go to 
school and learn music, and be somebody ; but he would n’t 
keep a hired girl, and so she was obliged to stay at home 
and do housework ; and she could no more have got a dol- 
lar out of him to pay for clothes and tuition, than you 
could squeeze sap out of a hoe-handle. 

“ The only way his wife could ever get anything new 
for the family was by stealing butter from her own dairy, 
and selling it behind his back. ‘ You need n’t say any- 
thing to Mr. Jedwort about this batch of butter,’ she 
would hint to the storekeeper; ‘but you may hand the 
money to me, or I will take my pay in goods.’ In this 
way a new gown, or a piece of cloth for the boys’ coats, or 
something else the family needed, would be smuggled into 
the house, with fear and trembling lest old Jedwort should 
make a row and find where the money came from. 

“ The house inside was kept neat as a pin ; but every- 
thing around it looked terribly shiftless. It was built 
originally in an ambitious style, and painted white. It 
had four tall front pillars, supporting the portion of the 
roof that came over the porch, — lifting up the eyebrows 


THE MAN WHO STOLE A MEETING-HOUSE. 391 


of the house, if I may so express myself, and making it 
look as if it was going to sneeze. Half the blinds were off 
their hinges, and the rest flapped in the wind. The front 
doorstep had rotted away. The porch had once a good 
floor, but for years Jedwort had been in the habit of going 
to it whenever he wanted a board for the pig-pen, until 
not a bit of floor was left. 

“ But I began to tell about Jedwort leaning on the gate 
that morning. We had all noticed him ; and as Dave and 
I brought in the milk, his mother asked, £ What is your 
father planning nowl Half the time he stands there, 
looking up the road ; or else he ’s walking up that way in 
a brown study/ 

“ ‘ He ’s got his eye on the old meeting-house/ says 
Dave, setting down his pail. ‘He has been watching it 
and walking round it, off and on, for a week.’ 

“ That was the first intimation I had of what the old 
fellow was up to. But after breakfast he followed me out 
of the house, as if he had something on his mind to say 
to me. 

“ ‘ Stark/ says he, at last, ‘ you ’ve always insisted on ’t 
that I was n’t an enterprisin’ man/ 

“ ‘ I insist on ’t still/ says I ; for I was in the habit of 
talking mighty plain to him, and joking him pretty hard 
sometimes. * If I had this farm, I ’d show you enterprise. 
You would n’t see the hogs in the garden half the time, 
just for want of a good fence to keep ’em out. You 
would n’t see the very best strip of land lying waste, just 
for want of a ditch. You would n’t see that stone-wall by 
the road tumbling down year after year, till by and by 
you won’t be able to see it for the weeds and thistles.’ 

“ ‘ Yes/ says he, sarcastically, ‘ye ’d lay out ten times as 
much money on the place as ye ’d ever git back agin, I ’ve 
no doubt. But I believe in economy/ 


392 THE MAN WHO STOLE A MEETING-HOUSE. 


“ That provoked me a little, and I said, £ Economy ! 
you ’re one of the kind of men that ’ll skin a flint for 
sixpence and spoil a jack-knife worth a shilling. You 
waste fodder and grain enough every three years to pay for 
a bigger barn, — to say nothing of the inconvenience.’ 

“ ‘ Wal, Stark,’ says he, grinning and scratching his 
head, ‘ I ’ve made up my mind to have a bigger barn, if I 
have to steal one.’ 

“ ‘ That won’t be the first thing you ’ve stole, neither,’ 
says I. 

“ He flared up at that. ‘ Stole 1 ’ says he. ‘ What did 
I ever steal 1 ’ 

“ ‘ Well, for one thing, the rails the freshet last spring 
drifted off from Talcott’s land onto yours, and you grabbed : 
what was that but stealing 1 ’ 

“ ‘ That was luck. He could n’t swear to his rails. By 
the way, they’ll jest come in play now.’ 

“ ‘ They ’ve come in play already,’ says I. ‘ They ’ve 
gone on to the old fences all over the farm, and I could 
use a thousand more without making much show.’ 

“ That ’s ’cause you ’re so dumbed extravagant with rails, 
as you are with everything else. A few loads can be 
spared from the fences here and there, as well as not. 
Harness up the team, boys, and git together enough to 
make about ten rods o’ zigzag, two rails high.’ 

“ ‘ Two rails 1 ’ says Dave, who had a healthy contempt 
for the old man’s narrow, contracted way of doing things. 
‘ What ’s the good of such a fence as that 1 ’ 

“ ‘ It’ll be,’ says I, ‘ like the single bar in music. When 
our old singing-master asked his class once what a single 
bar was, Bill Wilkins spoke up and said, “ It ’s a bar that 
horses and cattle jump over, and pigs and sheep run 
under.” What do you expect to keep out with two rails 1 ’ 

“ ‘ The law, boys, the law ,’ says Jedwort. ‘ I know 


THE MAN WHO STOLE A MEETING-HOUSE. 393 


what I ’m about. I ’ll make a fence the law can’t run 
under nor jump over; and I don’t care a cuss for the 
cattle and pigs. You git the rails, and I ’ll rip some boards 
off ’m the pig-pen to make stakes.’ 

“ ‘ Boards a’n’t good for nothin’ for stakes,’ says Dave. 
‘ Besides, none can’t be spared from the pig-pen.’ 

“ ‘ I ’ll have boards enough in a day or two for forty pig- 
pens,’ says Jed wort. ‘ Bring along the rails and dump ’em 
out in the road for the present, and say nothin’ to nobody.’ 

“We got the rails, and he made his stakes; and right 
away after dinner he called us out. ‘ Come, boys,’ says he, 
‘ now we ’ll astonish the natives.’ 

“ The wagon stood in the road, with the last jag of rails 
still on it. Jed wort piled on his stakes, and threw on the 
crowbar and axe, while we were hitching up the team. 

“ * Now, drive on, Stark,’ says he. 

“ ‘Yes; but where shall I drive to?’ 

“ ‘ To the old meetin’-house,’ says Jed wort, trudging on 
ahead. 

“ The old meeting-house stood on an open common, at 
the north-east corner of his farm. A couple of cross-roads 
bounded it on two sides ; and it was bounded on the other 
two by Jedwort’s overgrown stone wall. It was a square, 
old-fashioned building, with a low steeple, that had a bel- 
fry, but no bell in it, and with a high, square pulpit and 
high, straight-backed pews inside. It was now some time 
since meetings had been held there ; the old society that 
used to meet there having separated, one division of it 
building a fashionable chapel in the North Village, and the 
other a fine new church at the Centre. 

“ Now, the peculiarity about the old church property 
was, that nobody had any legal title to it. A log meeting- 
house had been built there when the country was first set- 
tled and land was of no account. In the course of time 
17 * 


394 THE MAN WHO STOLE A MEETING-HOUSE. 


that was torn down, and a good framed house put up in its 
place. As it belonged to the whole community, no title, 
either to the house or land, was ever recorded; and it 
was n’t until after the society dissolved that the question 
came up as to how the property was to be disposed of. 
While the old deacons were carefully thinking it over, Jed- 
wort was on hand, to settle it by putting in his claim. 

“ ‘ Now, boys,’ says he, ‘ ye see what I ’m up to.’ 

“ ‘ Yes,’ says I, provoked as I could be at the mean 
trick, ‘and I knew it was some such mischief all along. 
You never show any enterprise, as you call it, unless it is 
to get the start of a neighbor. Then you are wide awake ; 
then you are busy as the Devil in a gale of wind.’ 

“ ‘ But what are you up to, pa 1 ’ says Dan, who did n’t 
see the trick yet. 

“ The old man says, ‘ I ’m goin’ to fence in the rest part 
of my farm.’ 

“ ‘ What rest part ? ’ 

“ ‘ This part that never was fenced ; the old meetin’- 
house common.’ 

“ ‘ But, pa,’ says Dave, disgusted as I was, ‘ you ’ve no 
claim on that.’ 

“ ‘ Wal, if I ha’n’t, I ’ll make a claim. Give me the 
crowbar. Now, here ’s the corner, nigh as I can squint ’ ; 
and he stuck the bar into the ground. ‘ Make a fence 
to here from the wall, both sides.’ 

“‘Sho, pa!’ says Dan, looking bewildered; ‘ye a’n’t 
goin’ to fence in the old meetin’-house, be ye 1 ’ 

“ ‘ That ’s jest what I ’m goin’ to do. Go and git some 
big stuns from the wall, — the biggest ye can find, to rest 
the corners of the fence on. String the rails along by the 
road, Stark, and go for another load. Don’t stand gawp- 
in’ there ! ’ 

“ ‘ Gawpin' ? ’ says I ; ‘ it ’s enough to make anybody 


THE MAN WHO STOLE A MEETING-HOUSE. 395 


gawp. You do beat all the critters I ever had to deal 
with. Have n’t ye disgraced your family enough already, 
without stealing a meeting-house ? ’ 

“ ‘ How have I disgraced my family 1 ’ says he. 

“ Then I put it to him. ‘ Look at your children ; it ’s 
all your wife can do to prevent ’em from growing up in 
rags and dirt and ignorance, because you are too close- 
fisted to clothe ’em decently or send ’em to school. Look 
at your house and yard. To see an Irishman’s shanty in 
such a condition seems appropriate enough, but a genteel 
place, a house with pillars, run down and gone to seed like 
that, is an eyesore to the community. Then look at your 
wife. You never would have had any property to mis- 
manage, if it had n’t been for her ; and see the way ye 
show your gratitude for it. You won’t let her go into 
company, nor have company at home ; you won’t allow a 
hired girl in the house, but she and Maria have to do all 
the drudgery. You make perfect slaves of ’em. I swear, 
if ’t wa’n’t for your wife, I would n’t work for you an hour 
longer ; but she ’s the best vroman in the world, after all 
you ’ve done to break her spirit, and I hate to leave her.’ 

“The old fellow squirmed, and wrenched the crowbar 
in the ground, then snarled back : ‘ Yes ! you ’re waitin’ 

for me to die ; then you mean to step into my shoes.’ 

“ ‘ I hope you ’ll leave a decenter pair than them you ’ve 
got on, if I ’m to step into ’em,’ says I. 

One thing about it,’ says he, ‘ she won’t have ye.’ 

“ ‘ I should think,’ says I, ‘ a woman that would marry 
you would have ’most anybody.’ 

“ So we had it back and forth, till by and by he left me 
to throw off the rails, and went to show the boys how to 
build the fence. 

“ ‘Look here,’ says he ; ‘jest put a thunderin’ big stun 
to each corner ; then lay your rail on ; then drive your 


396 THE MAN WHO STOLE A MEETING-HOUSE. 


pair of stakes over it like a letter X.’ He drove a pair. 
‘ Now put on your rider. There ’s your letter X, ridin’ 
one length of rails and carryin’ another. That ’s what I 
call puttin’ yer alphabet to a practical use; and I say 
there a’n’t no sense in havin’ any more edication than ye 
can put to a practical use. I ’ve lamin’ enough to git 
along in the world ; and if my boys have as much as I ’ve 
got, they’ll git along. Now work spry, for there comes 
Deacon Talcott.’ 

“ ‘ Wal, wal ! ’ says the Deacon, coming up, puffing with 
excitement ; ‘ what ye doin’ to the old meetin’ -house ? ’ 

“ ‘Wal,’ says Jed wort, driving away at his stakes, and 
never looking up, ‘ I ’ve been considerin’ some time what I 
should do with ’t, and I ’ve concluded to make a barn on ’t.’ 

“ ‘ Make a barn ! make a bam ! ’ cries the Deacon. 
‘Who give ye liberty to make a barn of the house of God V 

“‘Nobody; I take the liberty. Why shouldn’t I do 
what I please with my own prop’ty 1 ’ 

“ ‘ Your own property, — what do ye mean 1 ’T a’n’t 
your meetin’ -house.’ 

“ ‘ Whose is ’t, if ’t a’n’t mine 1 ’ says Jedwort, lifting his 
turtle’s head from between his horizontal shoulders, and 
grinning in the Deacon’s face. 

“ ‘ It belongs to the society,’ says the Deacon. 

“ ‘ But the s’ciety ’s pulled up stakes and gone off.’ 

“ ‘ It belongs to individooals of the society, — to indi- 
vidooals.’ 

“ ‘Wal, I ’m an individooal,’ says Jedwort. 

“ ‘ You ! you never went to meetin’ here a dozen times 
in your life ! ’ 

“ ‘ I never did have my share of the old meetin’ -house, 
that’s a fact,’ says Jedwort ; ‘ but I ’ll make it up now.’ 

“ ‘ But what are ye fencin’ up the common for ? ’ says 
the Deacon. 


THE MAN WHO STOLE A MEETING-HOUSE. 397 


“ ‘ It ’ll make a good calf-pastur’. I ’ve never had my 
share o’ the vally o’ that, either. I ’ve let my neighbors’ 
pigs and critters run on ’t long enough ; and now I ’m jest 
goin’ to take possession o’ my own.’ 

“ ‘ Your own ! ’ says the Deacon, in perfect consternation. 
‘You ’ve no deed on ’t.’ 

“ ‘ Wal, have you 1 ’ 

“ ‘ No — but — the society — ’ 

“ ‘ The s’ciety, I tell ye,’ says Jedwort, holding his head 
up longer than I ever knew him to hold it up at a time, 
and grinning all the while in Talcott’s face, — ‘ the s’ciety 
is split to pieces. There a’ n’t no s’ciety now, — any more 
’n a pig ’s a pig arter you ’ve butchered and e’t it. You ’ve 
e’t the pig amongst ye, and left me the pen. The s’ciety 
never had a deed o’ this ’ere prop’ty ; and no man never 
had a deed o’ this ’ere prop’ty. My wife’s gran’daddy, 
when he took up the land here, was a good-natered sort of 
man, and he allowed a comer on ’t for his neighbors to put 
up a temp’rary meetin’-house. That was finally used up, 
— the kind o’ preachin’ they had them days was enough 
to use up in a little time any house that wa’n’t fire-proof ; 
and when that was preached to pieces, they put up another 
shelter in its place. This is it. And now ’t the land a’n’t 
used no more for the puppose ’t was lent for, it goes back 
nat’rally to the estate ’t was took from, and the buildin’s 
along with it.’ 

“ ‘ That ’s all a sheer fabrication,’ says the Deacon. ‘ This 
land was never a part of what ’s now your farm, any more 
than it was a part of mine.’ 

“ ‘ Wal,’ says Jedwort, ‘ I look at it in my way, and 
you ’ve a perfect right to look at it in your way. But I ’m 
goin’ to make sure o’ my way, by puttin’ a fence round the 
hull concern.’ 

“ ‘ And you ’re usin’ some of my rails for to do it with ! ’ 
says the Deacon. 


398 THE MAN WHO STOLE A MEETING-HOUSE. 


“ ‘ Can you swear ’t they ’re your rails 2 ’ 

“ < Yes, I can ; they ’re rails the freshet carried off from 
my farm last spring, and landed onto yourn.’ 

“ ‘ So I ’ve heard ye say. But can you swear to the par- 
tic’lar rails 1 Can you swear, for instance, ’t this ’ere is 
your rail 3 or this ’ere one 1 ’ 

“ ‘ No ; I can’t swear to precisely them two, — but — ’ 

“ ‘ Can you swear to these two 'l or to any one or two ! ’ 
says Jedwort. 1 No, ye can’t. Ye can swear to the lot in 
general, but you can’t swear to any partic’lar rail, and that 
kind o’ swearin’ won’t stand law, Deacon Talcott. I don’t 
boast of bein’ an edicated man, but I know suthin’ o’ what 
law is, and when I know it, I dror a line there, and I toe 
that line, and I make my neighbors toe that line, Deacon 
Talcott. Nine p’ints of the law is possession, and I ’ll 
have possession o’ this ’ere house and land by fencin’ on ’t 
in ; and though every man ’t comes along should say these 
’ere rails belong to them, I ’ll fence it in with these ’ere 
very rails.’ 

“ Jedwort said this, wagging his obstinate old head, and 
grinning with his face turned up pugnaciously at the Dea- 
con ; then went to work again as if he had settled the 
question, and did n’t wish to discuss it any further. 

“ As for Talcott, he was too full of wrath and boiling 
indignation to answer such a speech. He knew that Jed- 
wort had managed to get the start of him with regard to 
the rails, by mixing a few of his own w r ith those he had 
stolen, so that nobody could tell ’em apart ; and he saw at 
once that the meeting-house was in danger of going the 
same way, just for want of an owner to swear out a clear 
title to the property. He did just the wisest thing when 
he swallowed his vexation, and hurried off to alarm the 
leading men of the two societies, and to consult a lawyer. 
“ ‘ He ’ll stir up the old town like a bumble-bee’s nest,’ 


THE MAN WHO STOLE A MEETING-HOUSE. 399 


says J edwort. * Hurry up, boys, or there ’ll be a buzzin’ 
round our ears ’fore we git through ! ’ 

“ ‘ I wish ye would n’t, pa ! ’ says Dave. ‘ Why don’t 
we ’tend to our own business, and be decent, like other 
folks 1 I’m sick of this kind of life.’ 

“ ‘ Quit it, then,’ says Jedwort. 

“ ‘ Do you tell me to quit it 1 ’ says Dave, dropping the 
end of a rail he was handling. 

“ 4 Yes, I do ; and do it dumbed quick, if ye can’t show 
a proper respect to your father ! ’ 

“ Dave turned white as a sheet, and he trembled as he 
answered back, ‘ I should be glad to show you respect, if 
you was a man I could feel any respect for.’ 

“ At that, Jedwort caught hold of the iron bar that was 
sticking in the ground, where he had been making a hole 
for a stake, and pulled away at it. ‘ I ’ll make a stake-hole 
in you ! ’ says he. ‘ It ’s enough to have a sassy hired man 
round, without bein’ jawed by one’s own children ! ’ 

“ Dave was out of reach by the time the bar came out 
of the ground. 

“ ‘ Come here, you villain ! ’ says the old man. 

“ ‘ I ’d rather be excused,’ says Dave, backing off. ‘ 1 
don’t want any stake-holes made in me to-day. You told 
me to quit, and I ’m going to. You may steal your own 
meeting-houses in future ; I won’t help.’ 

“ There was a short race. Dave’s young legs proved al- 
together too smart for the old waddler’s, and he got off 
Then Jedwort, coming back, wheezing and sweating, with 
his iron bar, turned savagely on me. 

“ ‘ I ’ve a good notion to tell you to go too ! ’ 

“ ‘ Very well, why don’t ye ? ’ says I. ‘I’m ready.’ 

“ ‘ There ’s no livin’ with ye, ye ’re gittin’ so dumbed 
sassy ! What I keep ye for is a mystery to me.’ 

“ ‘ No, it a’n’t ; you keep me because you can’t get an- 


400 THE MAN WHO STOLE A MEETING-HOUSE. 

other man to fill my place. You put up with my sass for 
the money I bring ye in.’ 

“‘Hold your yawp/ says he, ‘and go and git another 
load of rails. If ye see Dave, tell him to come back to 
work.’ 

“ I did see Dave, but, instead of telling him to go back, 
I advised him to put out from the old home and get his 
living somewhere else. His mother and Maria agreed with 
me ; and when the old man came home that night, Dave 
was gone. 

“When I got back with my second load, I found the 
neighbors assembling to witness the stealing of the old 
meeting-house, and Jed wort was answering their remon- 
strances. 

“ ‘A meetin’-house is a respectable kind o’ prop’ty to 
have round/ says he. ‘ The steeple ’ll make a good show 
behind my house. When folks ride by, they ’ll stop and 
look, and say, “ There ’s a man keeps a private meetin’- 
house of his own.” I can have preachin’ in’t, too, if I 
want. I ’m able to hire a preacher of my own, or I can 
preach myself and save the expense.’ 

“Of course, neither sarcasm nor argument could have 
any effect on such a man. As the neighbors were going 
away, Jed wort shouted after ’em: ‘Call agin. Glad to see 
ye. There ’ll be more sport in a few days, when I take the 
dumbed thing away.’ (The dumbed thing was the meet- 
ing-house.) ‘I invite ye all to see the show. Free gratis. 
It ’ll be good as a circus, and a ’tarnal sight cheaper. The 
women can bring their knittin’, and the gals their ever- 
lastin’ tattin’. As it ’ll be a pious kind o’ show, bein’ it ’s 
a meetin’-house, guess I ’ll have notices gi’n out from the 
pulpits the Sunday afore.’ 

“ The common was fenced in by sundown ; and the next 
day Jedwort had over a house-mover from the North Vil- 


THE MAN WHO STOLE A MEETING-HOUSE. 401 


lage to look and see what could be done with the building. 
‘ Can ye snake it over, and drop it back of my house 1 ’ 
says he. 

“ * It ’ll be a hard job,’ says old Bob, ‘ without you tear 
down the steeple fust.’ 

“But Jedwort said, ‘What’s a meetin’-house ’thout a 
steeple 1 I ’ve got my heart kind o’ set on that steeple, 
and I ’m bound to go the hull hog on this ’ere concern, 
now I ’ve begun.’ 

“ ‘ I vow,’ says Bob, examining the timbers, ‘ I won’t 
warrant but what the old thing ’ll all tumble down.’ 

“ ‘ I ’ll resk it.’ 

“ ‘Yes ; but who ’ll resk the lives of me and my men V 

“ ‘ 0, you ’ll see if it ’s re’ly goin’ to tumble, and look 
out. I ’ll engage ’t me and my boys ’ll do the most dan- 
gerous part of the work. Dumbed if I would n’t agree to 
ride in the steeple and ring the bell, if there was one.’ 

“ I ’ve never heard that the promised notices were read 
from the pulpits ; but it was n’t many days before Bob 
came over again, bringing with him this time his screws 
and ropes and rollers, his men and timbers, horse and cap- 
stan ; and at last the old house might have been seen on 
its travels. 

“ It was an exciting time all around. The societies 
found that Jedwort’s fence gave him the first claim to 
house and land, unless a regular siege of the law was gone 
through to beat him off, — and then it might turn out 
that he would beat them. Some said fight him ; some 
said let him be, — the thing a’n’t worth going to law for ; 
and so, as the leading men could n’t agree as to what 
should be done, nothing was done. That was just what 
Jedwort had expected, and he laughed in his sleeve while 
Bob and his boys screwed up the old meeting-house, and 
got their beams under it, and set it on rollers, and slued it 


402 THE MAN WHO STOLE A MEETING-HOUSE. 

around, and slid it on the timbers laid for it across into 
Jed wort's field, steeple foremost, like a locomotive on a 
track. 

“ It was a trying time for the women-folks at home. 
Maria had declared that, if her father did persist in steal- 
ing the meeting-house, she would not stay a single day 
after it, but would follow Dave. 

(t That touched me pretty close, for, to tell the truth, it 
was rather more Maria than her mother that kept me at 
wprk for the old man. ‘ If you go,’ says I, ‘ then there is 
no object for me to stay ; I shall go too.’ 

“ ‘ That ’s what I supposed,’ says she ; ‘ for there ’s no 
reason in the world why you should stay. But then Dan 
will go ; and who ’ll be left to take sides with mother 1 
That ’s what troubles me. 0, if she could only go too ! 
But she won’t; and she couldn’t if she would, with the 
other children depending on her. Dear, dear ! what shall 
we do ? ’ 

“ The poor girl put her head on my shoulder, and cried ; 
and if I should own up to the truth, I suppose I cried a 
little too. For where’s the man that can hold a sweet 
woman’s head on his shoulder, while she sobs out her 
trouble, and he has n’t any power to help her — who, I 
say, can do any less, under such circumstances, than drop 
a tear or two for company 1 

Never mind; don’t hurry,’ says Mrs. Jedwort. ‘Be 
patient, and wait awhile, and it ’ll all turn out right, I’m* 
sure.’ 

“ ‘ Yes, you always say, “ Be patient, and wait ! ” ’ says 
Maria, brushing back her hair. ‘ But, for my part, I ’m 
tired of waiting, and my patience has given out long ago. 
We can’t always live in this way, and we may as well make 
a change now as ever. But I can’t bear the thought of 
going and leaving you.’ 


THE MAN WHO STOLE A MEETING-HOUSE. 403 


“ Here the two younger girls came in ; and, seeing that 
crying was the order of the day, they began to cry ; and 
when they heard Maria talk of going, they declared they 
would go j and even little Willie, the four-year-old, began 
to howl. 

“ ‘ There, there ! Maria ! Lottie ! Susie ! ’ said Mrs. Jed- 
wort, in her calm way ; 1 Willie, hush up ! I don’t know 
what we are to do ; hut I feel that something is going to 
happen that will show us the right way, and we are to 
wait. Now go and wash the dishes, and set the cheese.’ 

“ That was just after breakfast, the second day of the 
moving ; and sure enough, something like what she proph- 
esied did happen before another sun. 

“ The old frame held together pretty well till along to- 
ward night, when the steeple showed signs of seceding. 
‘ There she goes ! She ’s falling now ! ’ sung out the boys, 
who had been hanging around all day in hopes of seeing 
the thing tumble. 

“ The house was then within a few rods of where Jedwort 
wanted it ; but Bob stopped right there, and said it was n’t 
safe to haul it another inch. ‘ That steeple ’s bound to 
come down, if we do,’ says he. 

“ ‘ Not by a dumbed sight, it a’n’t,’ says Jedwort. 
‘ Them cracks a’n’t nothin’ ; the j’ints is all firm yit.’ 
He wanted Bob to go up and examine ; but Bob shook his 
head, — the concern looked too shaky. Then he told me 
to go up ; but I said I had n’t lived quite long enough, and 
had a little rather be smoking my pipe on terra jirma. 
Then the boys began to hoot. 1 Dumbed if ye a’n’t all a 
set of cowards,’ says he. ‘ I ’ll go up myself.’ 

“We waited outside while he climbed up inside. The 
boys jumped on the ground to jar the steeple, and make it 
fall. One of them blew a horn, — as he said, to bring 
down the old Jericho, — and another thought he’d help 


404 THE MAN WHO STOLE A MEETING-HOUSE. 


things along by starting up the horse, and giving the build- 
ing a little wrench. But Bob put a stop to that ; and 
finally out came a head from the belfry window. It was 
Jedwort, who shouted down to us : ‘There a’n’t a j’int or 
brace gin out. Start the hoss, and I ’ll ride. Pass me up 
that ’ere horn, and — ’ 

“ Just then there came a cracking and loosening of tim- 
bers ; and we that stood nearest had only time to jump 
out of the way, when down came the steeple crashing to 
the ground, with Jedwort in it.” 

“ I hope it killed the cuss,” said one of the village story- 
tellers. 

“ Worse than that,” replied my friend ; “ it just cracked 
his skull, — not enough to put an end to his miserable life, 
but only to take away what little sense he had. We got 
the doctors to him, and they patched up his broken head ; 
and, by George, it made me mad to see the fuss the wo- 
men-folks made over him. It would have been my way to 
let him die ; but they were as anxious and attentive to 
him as if he had been the kindest husband and most in- 
dulgent father that ever lived ; for that ’s women’s style : 
they ’re unreasoning creatures. 

“Along towards morning, we persuaded Mrs. Jedwort, 
who had been up all night, to lie down a spell and catch 
a little rest, while Maria and I sat up and watched with 
the old man. All was still except our whispers and his 
heavy breathing ; there was a lamp burning in the next 
room ; when all of a sudden a light shone into the win- 
dows, and about the same time we heard a roaring and 
crackling sound. We looked out, and saw the night all 
lighted up, as if by some great fire. As it appeared to be 
on the other side of the house, we ran to the door, and 
there what did we see but the old meeting-house all in 
flames. Some fellows had set fire to it to spite Jedwort. 


THE MAN WHO STOLE A MEETING-HOUSE. 405 


It must have been burning some time inside ; for when we 
looked out the flames had burst through the roof. 

“ As the night was perfectly still, except a light wind 
blowing away from the other buildings on the place, we 
raised no alarm, but just stood in the door and saw it burn. 
And a glad sight it was to us, you may be sure. I just 
held Maria close to my side, and told her that all was well, 

— it was the best thing that could happen. ‘ 0 yes,’ 
says she, ‘ it seems to me as though a kind Providence was 
burning up his sin and shame out of our sight.’ 

“ I had never yet said anything to her about marriage, 

— for the time to come at that had never seemed to 
arrive ; but there ’s nothing like a little excitement to 
bring things to a focus. You ’ve seen water in a tumbler 
just at the freezing-point, but not exactly able to make up 
its mind to freeze, when a little jar will set the crystals 
forming, and in a minute what was liquid is ice. It was 
the shock of events that night that touched my life into 
crystals, — not of ice, gentlemen, by any manner of means. 

“ After the fire had got along so far that the meeting- 
house was a gone case, an alarm was given, probably by 
the very fellows that set it, and a hundred people were on 
the spot before the thing had done burning. 

“ Of course these circumstances put an end to the break- 
ing up of the family. Dave was sent for, and came home. 
Then, as soon as we saw that the old man’s brain was in- 
jured so that he was n’t likely to recover his mind, the 
boys and I went to work and put that farm through a 
course of improvement it would have done your eyes good 
to see. The children were sent to school, and Mrs. Jed- 
wort had all the money she wanted now to clothe them, 
and to provide the house with comforts, without stealing 
her own butter. Jed wort was a burden ; but, in spite of 
him, that was just about the happiest family, for the next 
four years, that ever lived on this planet. 


406 THE MAN WHO STOLE A MEETING-HOUSE. 


“ Jedwort soon got his bodily health, but I don’t think 
he knew one of us again after his hurt. As near as I could 
get at his state of mind, he thought he had been changed 
into some sort of animal. He seemed inclined to take 
me for a master, and for four years he followed me around 
like a dog. During that time he never spoke, but only 
whined and growled. When I said, ‘ Lie down,’ he ’d lie 
down ; and when I whistled he ’d come. 

“ I used sometimes to make him work ; and certain sim- 
ple things he would do very well, as long as I was by. One 
day I had a jag of hay to get in ; and, as the boys were 
away, I thought I ’d have him load it. I pitched it on to the 
wagon about where it ought to lie, and looked to him only 
to pack it down. There turned out to be a bigger load 
than I had expected, and the higher it got, the worse the 
shape of it, till finally, as I was starting it towards the 
barn, off it rolled, and the old man with it, head foremost. 

“ He struck a stone heap, and for a moment I thought he 
was killed. But he jumped up and spoke for the first time. 
‘ I'll blow it ,’ says he, finishing the sentence he had begun 
four years before, when he called for the horn to be passed 
up to him. 

“ I could n’t have been much more astonished if one of 
the horses had spoken. But I saw at once that there was 
an expression in Jed wort’s face that had n’t been there since 
his tumble in the belfry ; and I knew that, as his wits had 
been knocked out of him by one blow on the head, so an- 
other blow had knocked ’em in again. 

“ * Where ’s Bob 1 ’ says he, looking all around. 

“ ‘ Bob 1 ’ says I, not thinking at first who he meant. 
‘ 0, Bob is dead, — he has been dead these three years.’ 

“ Without noticing my reply, he exclaimed : ‘ Where 
did all that hay come from? Where’s the old meetin’- 
house ? ’ 


THE MAN WHO STOLE A MEETING-HOUSE. 407 


u 1 Don’t you know 1 ’ says I. ‘ Some rogues set fire to 
it the night after you got hurt, and burnt it up/ 

“ He seemed then just beginning to realize that some- 
thing extraordinary had happened. 

“ ‘ Stark,’ says he, ‘ what ’s the master with ye ? You ’re 
changed.’ 

“ ‘ Yes, says I, ‘I wear my beard now, and I’ve grown 
older ! ’ 

“ ‘ Dumbed if ’t a’n’t odd ! ’ says he. ‘ Stark, what in 
thunder’s the matter with me? ’ 

“ 1 You ’ve had meeting-house on the brain for the past 
four years,’ says I ; ‘ that ’s what ’s the matter.’ 

“ It was some time before I could make him understand 
that he had been out of his head, and that so long a time 
had been a blank to him. 

“ Then he said, ‘ Is this my farm 1 ’ 

“ ‘ Don’t you know it 1 ’ says I. 

“ * It looks more slicked up than ever it used to/ says he. 
“ ‘Yes,’ says I; ‘and you ’ll find everything else on the 
place slicked up in about the same way/ 

“ ‘ Where ’s Dave 1 ’ says he. 

“ ‘ Dave has gone to town to see about selling the wool/ 
“ ‘ Where ’s Dan 1 ’ 

“ * Dan ’s in college. He takes a great notion to medi- 
cine ; and we ’re going to make a doctor of him/ 

“ ‘ Whose house is that ? ’ says he, as I was taking him 
home. 

“ ‘ No wonder you don’t know it,’ says I. ‘ It has been 
painted, and shingled, and had new blinds put on ; the gates 
and fences are all in prime condition ; and that ’s a new 
barn we put up a couple of years ago/ 

“ ‘ Where does the money come from, to make all these 
improvements 1 ’ 

“ ‘ It comes off the place,’ says I. ‘We have n’t run in 


408 THE MAN WHO STOLE A MEETING-HOUSE. 


debt the first cent for anything, but we ’ve made the farm 
more profitable than it ever was before/ 

“ 1 That my house ^ ’ he repeated wonderingly, as we ap- 
proached it. ‘ What sound is that 1 ’ 

“ ‘ That ’s Lottie practising her lesson on the piano/ 

“ 1 A pianer in my house 1 ’ he muttered. ‘ I can’t stand 
that ! ’ He listened. ‘ It sounds pooty, though ! ’ 

“ ‘ Yes, it does sound pretty, and I guess you ’ll like it. 
How does the place suit you ] ’ 

“ ‘ It looks pooty.’ He started. 4 What young lady is 
that ? ’ 

“ It was Lottie, who had left her music, and stood by 
the window. 

“ ‘ My dahter ! ye don’t say ! Dumbed if she a’n’t a 
mighty nice gal.’ 

“ * Yes,’ says I ; ‘ she takes after her mother/ 

“ Just then Susie, who heard talking, ran to the door. 

“ ‘ Who ’s that agin 1 ’ says Jedwort. 

“ I told him. 

“ ‘ Wal, she ’s a mighty nice-lookin’ gal ! ’ 

“ ‘ Yes,’ says I, ‘ she takes after her mother/ 

“Little Willie, now eight years old, came out of the 
wood-shed with a bow-and-arrow in his hand, and stared 
like an owl, hearing his father talk. 

“ ‘ What boy is that 1 * says Jedwort. And when I told 
him, he muttered, ‘ He ’s an ugly-looking brat ! * 

“ ‘ He ’s more like his father,’ says I. 

“ The truth is, Willie was such a fine boy the old man 
was afraid to praise him, for fear I ’d say of him, as I ’d 
said of the girls, that he favored his mother. 

“ Susie ran back and gave the alarm ; and then out 
came mother, and Maria with her baby in her arms, — for 
I forgot to tell you that we had been married now nigh on 
to two years. 


THE MAN WHO STOLE A MEETING-HOUSE. 409 


“ Well, the women-folks were as much astonished as I had 
been when Jed wort first spoke, and a good deal more de- 
lighted. They drew him into the house ; and I am bound 
to say he behaved remarkably well. He kept looking at 
his wife, and his children, and his grandchild, and the new 
paper on the walls, and the new furniture, and now and then 
asking a question or making a remark. 

“ ‘ It all comes back to me now,’ says he at last. ‘ I 
thought I was living in the moon, with a superior race of 
human bein’s ; and this is the place, and you are the 
people.’ 

“ It was n’t more than a couple of days before he began 
to pry around, and find fault, and grumble at the expense ; 
and I saw there was danger of things relapsing into some- 
thing like their former condition. So I took him one side, 
and talked to him. 

“ ‘ Jedwort,’ says I, ‘you ’re like a man raised from the 
grave. You was the same as buried to your neighbors, 
and now they come and look at you as they would at a 
dead man come to life. To you, it ’s like coming into a new 
world ; and I ’ll leave it to you now, if you don’t rather 
like the change from the old state of things to what you 
see around you to-day. You ’ve seen how the family af- 
fairs go on, — how pleasant everything is, and how we all 
enjoy ourselves. You hear the piano, and like it ; you see 
your children sought after and respected, — your wife in 
finer health and spirits than you ’ve ever known her since 
the day she was married ; you see industry and neatness 
everywhere on the premises ; and you ’re a beast if you 
don’t like all that. In short, you see that our management 
is a great deal better than yours ; and that we beat you, 
even in the matter of economy. Now, what I want to know 
is this : whether you think you ’d like to fall into our way 
of living, or return like a hog to your wallow.’ 

18 


410 THE MAN WHO STOLE A MEETING-HOUSE. 


“ ‘ I don’t say but what I like your way of livin’ very 
well/ he grumbled. 

“ ‘ Then/ says I, ‘you must just let us go ahead, as we 
have been going ahead. Now ’s the time for you to turn 
about and be a respectable man, like your neighbors. Just 
own up, and say you ’ve not only been out of your head the 
past four years, but that you ’ve been more or less out of 
your head the last four-and-twenty years. But say you ’re 
in your right mind now, and prove it by acting like a man 
in his right mind. Do that, and I ’m with you ; we ’re all 
with you. But go back to your old dirty ways, and you go 
alone. Now I sha’ n’t let you off till you tell me what 
you mean to do.’ 

“ He hesitated some time, then said, ‘ Maybe you ’re 
about right, Stark ; you and Dave and the old woman 
seem to be doin’ pooty well, and I guess I ’ll let you go 
on.’ ” 

Here my friend paused, as if his story was done ; when 
one of the villagers asked, “ About the land where the 
old meetin’-house stood, — what ever was done with 
that 1 ” 

“ That was appropriated for a new school-house ; and 
there my little shavers go to school.” 

“ And old Jed wort, is he alive yet 1 ” 

“ Both Jed wort and his wife have gone to that country 
where meanness and dishonesty have a mighty poor 
chance, — where the only investments worth much are 
those recorded in the Book of Life. Mrs. Jed wort w r as 
rich in that kind of stock ; and Jedwort’s account, I guess, 
will compare favorably with that of some respectable peo- 
ple, such as we all know. I tell ye, my friends,” continued 
my fellow-traveller, “ there ’s many a man, both in the 
higher and lower ranks of life, that ’t would do a deal of 
good, say nothing of the mercy ’t would be to their fam- 


THE MAN WHO STOLE A MEETING-HOUSE. 411 


ilies, just to knock ’em on the head, and make Nebuchad- 
nezzars of ’em, — then, after they ’d been turned out to grass 
a few years, let ’em come back again, and see how happy 
folks have been, and how well they have got along with- 
out ’em. 

“ I carry on the old place now,” he added. “ The youn- 
ger girls are married off; Dan’s a doctor in the North 
Village ; and as for Dave, he and I have struck ile. I ’m 
going out to look at our property now.” 


THE END. 










































LEE AND SHEPARD’S POPULAR FICTION 


Lee and Shepard’s 

POPULAR FICTION 

- iM~~ 


J. T. TROWBRIDGE’S NOVELS 


Neighbor Jackwood. By J. T. Trowbridge. New Revised 
Edition, with Autobiographical Chapter and Portrait. Price-, $1.50. 

“ It sparkles with wit, it is liquid with humor, it has the unmistakable touch 
of nature, and it has a procession of characters like a novel of Scott; indeed, 
in many ways it recalls that great master. There is less description and more 
action in it than is habitual with Scott, and the conception of some of its sec- 
ondary characters, such as the crazv-brained Edward Longman, would not be 
unworthy of him.” — ‘John Burroughs. 

Neighbor’s Wives. By J. T. Trowbridge. Price, $1.50. 

“ A new edition of one of the most successful of this favorite author’s books. It 
will be read with fresh interest by many who have welcomed it in earlier editions, 
and to those who now give it their first reading it will yield delightful entertainment, 
and unfold lessons that will live long in the memory.” — Gospel Banner. 

Coupon Bonds. By J. T. Trowbridge. Price, cloth, $1.50; 
paper, 50 cents. 

“ ‘ Coupon Bonds ’ is undoubtedly one of the best short stories ever published 
in this country. It is a most happy and felicitous stroke. It is brimful of the 
very best quality of humor, — the humor that grows naturally out of the char- 
acter and the situation, and it moves along briskly, without any urging or 
pushinp- by the author. It is full of incident, full of character, full of novel 
and ludicrous surprises and situations; and, if it could be composed into a 
three-act comedy, would be as irresistible in its way as Sheridan’s * School for 
Scandal.’ ” — Scnhtier’s Motithly. 

Cudjo’s Cave. By J. T. Trowbridge. Price, cloth, $1.50; 

paper, 50 cents. 

Mr. Trowbridge’s readers are accustomed to plenty of lively incidents and 
exciting adventures, and in this volume the supply is surely abundant. The 
story opens with the adventures of a Quaker schoolmaster in Tennessee pre- 
vious to the opening of the late war, and the exciting scenes attendant upon 
the opening of the great struggle between North and South are portrayed in a 
graphic manner. Many of the chapters recall the stories of thrilling adven- 
ture that were current in war times. 

Three Scouts. By J. T. Trowbridge. Price, cloth, $1.50; 

paper, 50 cents. 

This story is a companion to “ Cudjo’s Cave ” and “ The Drummer Boy,” in 
being a narrative of stormy events in the Civil War, when the army of the 
Cumberland, under Rosecrans, and the Confederate forces, under Bragg, were 
battling with each other in 1862. Yet it is complete in itself as a story. 


LEE AND SHEPARD’S POPULAR FICTION 


The Drummer Boy. By J. T. Trowbridge. Illustrated. 
Price $1.50. 

The author of this book is so famous as a story-writer, that another excellent 
one is only what all his readers expect. It is a story of the late war, and of a boy 
who went into the army as a drummer, and who, from the good instructions of 
a fond and noble mother, sought to impart to his rude and reckless companions 
some of the good of his own character. 

Farnell’s Folly. By J. T. Trowbridge. Price $1.50. 

All the sterling qualities which have placed Mr. Trowbridge among the 
foremost of American novelists are to be found in this new romance. It is not 
a short story or series of sketches that may be “devoured” in an hour, but, 
as the number of its pages testify, a full-blooded romance, alive with incident, 
and overflowing with interest. 

Martin Merrivale: His X Mark. By J. T. Trowbridge. 
Price $1.50. 

This story of New England life abounds in passages of rare humor and 
pathos. Not even in “Coupon Bonds” nor in “Neighbor Jackwood” has 
Trowbridge created characters better fitted to give him enduring fame. No 
one can read the story without seeing that the author has put his whole soul in 
it. On his last page, he says, and evidently in all sincerity, that he has 
written it, “ not for fame, still less for fortune, but all for love.” 


OLIVER OPTIC’S NOVELS 

Three Millions; or, The Way of the World. By William 
T. Adams (Oliver Optic). Price, cloth, $1.50; paper, 50 
cents. 

The book furnishes a most romantic, and, withal, a most instructive illustra- 
tion of the way of the world in its false estimate of money. All who read the 
first chapter, entitled “ Three Millions,” will not be satisfied until they have 
read the thirty-five chapters, terminating with “ The Last of the Three 
Millions.” 

Living- too Fast. By William T. Adams (Oliver Optic). 
Price $1.50. 

This is the best novel of a fascinating writer. It is full of incidents of a 
fast life, and of the expedients to keep up appearances, resulting in crime, 
remorse, and the evil opinion of all good men. The narrative is replete vvuh 
startling situations, temptations, and all the elements of a thrilling story. 

In Doors and Out. By William T. Adams (Oliver Optic). 
Price $1.50. 

This volume contains about thirty bright and interesting stories of domestic 
life, directed against the follies and foibles of the age. They are written in a 
kindly, genial style, and with a sincere purpose to promote happiness, good 
feeling, and right dealing in domestic, business, and social relations. 


LEE AND SHEPARD, BOSTON, SEND THEIR COMPLETE CATALOGUE FREE. 


OLIVER OPTIC’S BOOKS 


The Way of the World. By Oliver Optic. Illustrated. 

“ One of the most interesting American novels we have ever read.” — Phila- 
delphia City Item. * 

“This story treats of a fortune of three million dollars left a youthful heir. 
The volume bears evidence in every chapter of the fresh, original, and fascinat- 
ing style which has always enlivened Mr. Adams’ productions. We have the 
same felicitous manner of working out the plot by conversation, the same 
quaint wit and humor, and a class of characters which stand out boldly, pen 
photographs of living beings. 

“ The book furnishes a most romantic and withal a most instructive illustra- 
tion of the way of the world in its false estimate of money.” 

Living* too Fast; or, the Confessions of a Bank Officer. 
By Oliver Optic. Illustrated. $1.50. 

This story records the experience of a bank officer in the downward career of 
crime. The career ought, perhaps, to have ended in the State’s prison; but 
the author chose to represent the defaulter as sharply punished in another way. 
The book contains a most valuable lesson; and shows, in another leading 
character, the true life which a young business man ought to lead. 


In Doors and Out ; or, Views from a Chimney Corner. By 
Oliver Optic. Illustrated. $1.50. 

“ Many who have not time and patience to wade through a long story will 
find here many pithy and sprightly tales, each sharply hitting some social 
absurdity or social vice. We recommend the book heartily after having read 
the three chapters on ‘ Taking a Newspaper.” If all the rest are as sensible 
and interesting as these, and doubtless they are, the book is well worthy of 
patronage.” — Vermoiit Record. 

“As a writer of domestic stories, Mr. William T. Adams (Oliver Optic) 
made his mark even before he became so immensely popular through his 
splendid books for the young. In the volume before us are given several of 
these tales, and they comprise a book which will give them a popularity greater 
than they have ever before enjoyed. They are written in a spirited style, 
impart valuable practical lessons, and are of the most lively interest .” — Boston 
Home Journal. 


Our Standard Bearer. A Life of Gen. U. S. Grant. By 
Oliver Optic. Illustrated by Thomas Nast. Illuminated 
covers, $1-50. 

It has long been out of print, but now comes out in a new edition, with a 
narrative of the civil career of the General as President for two terms, his 
remarkable journey abroad, his life in New York, and his sickness, death, and 
burial. Perhaps the reader will remember that the narrative is told by 
“ Captain Galligasken ” after a style that is certainly not common or tiresome, 
but, rather, in a direct, simple, picturesque, and inspiring way that wins the 
heart of the young reader. For the boy who wants to read the life of General 
Grant, this book is the best that has been published, — perhaps the only one 
ihat is worth any consideration. 


Just His Luck. By Oliver Optic. Illustrated. $1.00. 

“ It deals with real flesh and blood boys; with boys who possess many noble 
qualities of mind ; with boys of generous impulses and large hearts ; with boys 
who delight in playing pranks, and who are ever ready for any sort of mischief, 
and with boys in whom human nature is strongly engrafted. They are boys, 
as many of us have been; boys in the true unvarnished l sense of The word , 
bovs with hopes, ideas, and inspirations, but lacking in judgment, self-control, 
and discipline. And the book contains an appropriate moral, teaches ‘ 
lesson, and presents many a precept worthy of being followed. It is a capital 
book for boys.” 


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J. T. TROWBRIDGE’S BOOKS 


THE TIDE-MILL. STORIES. 6 volumes. 

Phil and His Friends. By J. T. Trowbridge. Illustrates. 
$1.25. 

The hero is the son of a man who from drink got into debt, and, after having 

g iven a paper to a creditor authorizing him to keep the son as a security for 
is claim, ran away, leaving poor Phil a bond slave. The story involves a 
great many unexpected incidents, some of which are painful, and some comic. 
Phil manfully works for a year, cancelling his father’s debt, and then escapes. 
The characters are strongly drawn, and the story is absorbingly interesting. 

The Tinkham Brothers* Tide-Mill. By J. T. Trowbridge. 
Illustrated. $1.25. 

“ The Tinkham Brothers ” were the devoted sons of an invalid mother. The 
story tells how they purchased a tide-mill, which afterwards, by the ill-will and 
obstinacy of neighbors, became a source of much trouble to them. It tells also 
how, by discretion and the exercise of a peaceable spirit, they at last overcame 
all difficulties. 

“ Mr. Trowbridge’s humor, his fidelity to nature, and story-telling power 
lose nothing with years ; and he stands at the head of those who are furnishing 
a literature for the young, clean and sweet in tone, and always of interest and 
value.” — The Continent. 

Tlie Satin-wood Box. By J. T. Trowbridge. Illustrated. 
$1.25. 

“ Mr. Trowbridge has always a purpose in his writings, and this time he 
has undertaken to show how very near an innocent boy can come to the guilty 
edge and yet be able by fortunate circumstances to rid himself of all suspicion 
of evil. There is something winsome about the hero; but he has a singular 
way of falling into bad luck, although the careful reader will never feel the 
least disposed to doubt his honesty. ... It is the pain and perplexity which 
impart to the story its intense interest.” — Syracuse Standard. 

The Little Master. By J. T. Trowbridge. Illustrated. $1.25. 

This is the story of a schoolmaster, his trials, disappointments, and final 
victory. It will recall to many a man his experience in teaching pupils, and 
in managing their opinionated and self-willed parents. The story has the 
charm which is always found in Mr. Trowbridge’s works. 

“ Many a teacher could profit by reading of this plucky little schoolmaster.” 
— Journal of Education. 

His One Fault. By J. T. Trowbridge. Illustrated. $1.25. 

“As for the hero of this story, ‘His One Fault’ was absent-mindedness. He 
forgot to lock his uncle’s stable door, and the horse was stolen. In seeking to 
recover the stolen horse, he unintentionally stole another. In trying to restore 
the wrong horse to his rightful owner, he was himself arrested. After no end 
of comic and dolorous adventures, he surmounted all his misfortunes by down- 
right pluck and genuine good feeling. It is a noble contribution to juvenile 
literature.” — Woman's Journal. 

Peter Budstone. By J. T. Trowbridge. Illustrated. $1.25. 

“ Trowbridge’s other books have been admirable and deservedly popular, 
but this one, in our opinion, is the best yet. It is a story at once spirited and 
touching, with a certain dramatic and artistic quality that appeals to the literary 
sense as well as to the story-loving appetite. In it Mr. Trowbridge has not 
lectured or moralized or remonstrated; he has simply shown boys what they 
are doing when they contemplate hazing. By a good artistic impulse we are 
not shown the hazing at all; when the story begins, the hazing is already over, 
and we are introduced immediately to the results. It is an artistic touch also 
that the boy injured is not hurt because he is a fellow of delicate nerves, but be- 
cause of his very strength, and the power with which he resisted until overcome 
by numbers, and subjected to treatment which left him insane. His insanity 
takes the form of harmless delusion, and the absurdity of his ways and talk 
enables the author to lighten the sombreness without weakening the moral- in 
a way that ought to win all boys to his side.” — The Critic. 

LEE AND SHEPARD, BOSTON, SEND THEIR COMPLETE CATALOGUE FREE. 


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